


Only You (And You Alone)

by sarkomi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Shape of Water (2017)
Genre: Asset!Martin, Heavily based off SOW, Lots of worldbuilding as per usual, M/M, Michael and Helen maybe eventually I'm not sure anymore, Tim has his poly relationship, fair warning this is set in the 1960s, jon has laryngeal cancer and doesn’t given a damn, mentions of racism & homophobia present further down the line
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2020-04-11 10:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkomi/pseuds/sarkomi
Summary: Jonathan Sims had always aimed to be the top of his class. He was obsessed with the concept of technology, the growth of society around him and throughout the world. He was set up for success—a bright future just ahead of him—but once his detrimental smoking habit broke through his mental and physical health, he was diagnosed with laryngeal cancer.Struggling to continue his life as he used to, he resigns his Literature degree for a job at the Institute of Metaphysical Affairs of General and Non-ministerial Unidentified Subjects— otherwise known as the MAGNUS Institute—a government-mandated facility dedicated to investigating foreign and domestic objects of trivial cause: a facility dedicated to the supernatural.Once Chief Operating Officer Elias Bouchard introduces a new subject being brought to the facility, Jon and his associate, Timothy Stoker, accept the case almost immediately. Unknowing of the dangers the “Asset” possesses, Jon and Tim are forced to sacrifice their personal safety—and the safety of those around them—in order to find out the true nature of the MAGNUS institute.





	1. The Persistence of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've done a longform fic, and it's nice to be writing again! Gonna be a little odd, not gonna lie, but hopefully it goes over well. Comments are highly encouraged, I'd really like to hear your input on the AU and especially any way I can improve my writing/characterization!
> 
> Also huge thanks to my good friend Sharky for inspiring me to write again, as well as inspire me to draw art that I'm actually really proud of.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy, and I hope you all like it!

**REPORT # 194**

**STATEMENT #9060717CM -**

**GIVEN UNDER THE SUPERVISION OF CHIEF OPERATING OFFICER ELIAS BOUCHARD.**

[Note: Transcription in progress by Jonathan Sims, Chief Archivist of the MAGNUS Institute.]

-

_Click._

The reels of the decades-old statement roll through the playback head of the tape recorder. It whirs and skips, supplying Jon with enough worry to leave him lightheaded when the statement actually began playing. He let out a sigh, clearing his throat afterwards as a reminder to start on the transcription.

“...unenlightened. Unknowing, perhaps, though mine tells me that doesn't belong to us.” The statement seemed to mute in the small, rather cramped, office space. He listened, the subject’s words piling out of the recorder. “That belongs to another, something that has never been me or...”

_Click._

The recorder came to a halt, pausing mid sentence as if it had reached the end of the reel. He’d only just started the statement, why would it pause? He’d been told by Elias that it was a full reel, the statement nearly having to overplay into another cartridge.

“I thought she would never stop talking,” Elias had said. “Drowning in her own words, fascinated with the ocean—though being ‘fascinated’ just simply wasn’t enough. She was so much more… intimate.”

Jon removed his glasses, setting them on the table as he leaned back in his chair, massaging his temples. He figured the tape was damaged, or perhaps the playback sequence was corrupted. Whatever it was, he decided to leave it alone for the time being. Looking at papers for hours on end was easy for him, but the last time he had to fix a tape recorder he nearly lit his office space on fire.

Circuits weren’t exactly his forte.

The silence that surrounded him as well as his inner thoughts were interrupted by the door of the office opening and an unannounced guest stepping in. The lack of knocking or slight indication of who was entering was enough for him to know.

“Jon, are you busy, by any chance?”

Of course.

Jon reached for his glasses before turning back to his coworker (or “subordinate”, as Elias would put it).

“Yes, come in, Tim,” Jon signed, rolling his eyes as he exaggerated his movements. He cleared the chair near his desk of papers so Tim could sit, telling himself that he’d organize them later, which he already knew was a lie. 

“Ah, thank you. Always good to know that I’m welcome,” Tim said, laughing as he made his way to sit down. “You’ve always had a way with words.”

Ironic.

Coming out of his years in university, where he had met Tim, Jon had been mute. No trauma backed as reasoning for this state—rather his own idiotic mistakes. He had already taken up lessons for sign language during university, so when he was diagnosed with cancer—laryngeal cancer, at that—which stalled his ability to speak comfortably, he found it more... useful than he’d expected.

At the time, he wasn’t sure if the major he’d originally been studying for was any more useful than his lessons in sign.

“Well, if you need an answer, when am I ever not busy, Tim?” Jon gestured to the papers on his desk, most of which had been shoved to the side and stacked in unorganized piles. “But,” he continued, “It’s not that important. More busy work from Elias, you know how he is." 

Tim took in a short breath, nodding at the comment. “Yeah, well, apparently he’s finally deciding to focus on a case.”

Jon’s eyes shot up from the files he had looked to. He stalled, shock silenced on his face, not knowing what to say, how to react. 

Elias had plenty of cases to focus on, hell, Jon had been swamped with the growing social change throughout the past few weeks. He hadn’t seen this spike in the Archives since World War II, but even then it was controlled. Now, it’s sporadic. Fashion is expanding, cinematic experiences are growing, more people are working—more women are working—and the technology is advancing. Most of the reports filing in were laced with over exaggerated experiences and mediocrity—all amplified by these social changes. He’d take the time to look over the statements, go through events or any affirmations of it's reality, then report it to Elias. It was a repetitive position to be in, but Jon didn’t know anything better.

And now, he’s told that Elias would be focusing on something. It shouldn't mean as much as it does, Jon has been through plenty of lengthy cases. He knew the procedure, the long meetings with Elias, the long nights and even longer days.

That environment, despite how “incredibly unhealthy” it is—according to Tim, at least—is Jon’s preferred state. He’d rather focus on a specific statement rather than jump around. To Jon, it was therapeutic. To Tim, it was insane.

“What's the case?” Jon asked, leaning forward on the desk. He tried to contain the impending excitement for a fresh case, but Tim knew him better than that. Tim could tell by Jon’s bouncing leg and tapping finger on the desk that he was eager for the information. 

Needless to say, Tim was as well.

-

“He gave me a list of resources to book, most of them are pretty reasonable,” Tim said as he led Jon through the resource center. Jon tapped on Tim’s shoulder to get his attention before signing a follow up.

“Most of them?”

Tim shrugged as he mumbled some sort of agreement, weighing his hands back and forth. Jon didn’t particularly need a straight answer, Elias was thorough enough to tell someone what they were supposed to do, but vague enough to leave them in the dark on their overlying objective.

“He wanted to meet us eventually, see what we had found.” Tim moved around a shelf, running his finger across the spines of resources until he found the one he needed. Once he took it out, he turned towards Jon and leaned against the shelf, pointing the book at him. “You know what? I don't understand how he spends all this time in his office, moping around or doing whatever the hell ‘Chief Officer Elias Bouchard’ does, yet still asks us to find his information. Everytime I see him he’s reading the paper, filing through his desk, talking to Lukas, talking to his assistant—God I’m surprised she hasn't put him in the ground already.”

Jon remembered coming into the Institute and meeting her for the first time. She introduced herself as Daisy, but Elias has given Jon her file.

She was Alice "Daisy” Tonner, personal assistant to the Chief Officer. Not her perfect fit for a job at the Institute, Jon had thought, but she was stubborn and tough, quite opposite of what her nickname suggested. Which, unsurprisingly, was fitting for Elias.

_Beep beep._

Speaking of…

“Jon, Tim—my office, immediately.”

“Oh, on a first name basis now, are we, Elias? At least buy me some dinner first,” Tim tucked the book he had been holding under his arm, muting his beeper before the feedback between his and Jon’s could cut in.

“You will address me appropriately, Stoker. Referring to me informally again, without my permission, will result in your… Much desired demotion.”

“You’re a rather nice lad, boss, but I think I’d rather stay acquaintances—no hard feelings?"

Jon could hear Elias’s reluctant sigh from his receiver.

“My office, now.”

_Beep beep._

Tim let out a deep breath, more as a transition to move from the tension-filled call—which he thoroughly enjoyed.

“Some day, eventually, he’s going to...” Jon had started to sign, before Tim held his hands down, cutting him off.

“...Let me go?” Tim finished, laughing under his breath. “As if he’d ever get rid of me. I'm the one person keeping this place from turning into a depressing pile of spooky government secrets. Plus, I’d run my mouth way too much to Liza and Jack at home.”

Jon gave him a cross look. “He’d have you executed, Tim."

To which Tim replied with an equally cross expression, “You know Liza, Jon. She’d kill him before he could lay down the blade.”

-

“Jon,” Elias started, motioning the two inside his office. Jon passed into the room, meanwhile Tim stayed behind, waiting expectantly for Elias to acknowledge him.

“Stoker,” Elias said, warily.

“Hey, boss!” He piped, before walking joyfully into the room behind Jon, setting the resource book he had marked out from the library on Elias’s desk. 

Elias took a deep breath, motioning that they sit down in the chairs opposite his desk so they could begin. “Please, let’s get started, shall we? I have a meeting soon.”

Jon sat down and looked at Tim, who had already begun to relay another witty remark, to which Jon held his hand out, as if to silence him.

“Tim, hold back just a little, for your sake and mine,” he signed. Elias nodded solemnly, before clearing his throat.

“Thank you two for coming on such short notice. Jon, I presume you’ve finished reviewing the statement? Report 194?” Elias waited expectantly as Jon formulated a reply, which he could tell wasn't going very well.

“Something was wrong. It wouldn't relay correctly on the tape,” Jon signed. Elias looked to Tim for a vocalization, who followed suit. “It stopped a few minutes in, but it was a full tape, wasn’t it?” He chewed his lip, unsure of how to respond if Elias were to ask why it wasn't working correctly. “It may have been the tape itself, or...”

Elias stopped him before he could finish.

“It’s fine, Jon. I’ve already reviewed the tape myself, I’ll just- You give it to Ms. Tonner. I’ll have her send it to our tech support.” Elias shook his head, dismissing the subject. “I don’t want to focus about that too much right now, let’s move on to the real reason I’ve brought you two here.”

“Tim, did you find the book in our archives?” Elias asked, Tim straightening up as he motioned to the hardback he had placed on the desk. Elias moved it closer to himself, opening it up and searching through the contents as he spoke.

“The two of you are familiar with South America’s role in the war, correct?” He looked to Tim, inferring he vocalize his and Jon’s thoughts on the matter.

“Mainly Brazil’s,” Tim responded in his own words, before turning to Jon, who expanded on the subject. “Brazil held neutrality until 1941, then aided in the efforts to depart other American countries’ diplomatic relations with the Axis.” Elias nodded, sweeping his hand across a page before turning it around for Tim and Jon. He paused, looking to the two across from him for any intel. Tim remained silent, bouncing his leg up and down as he thought to himself. Jon was leaned forward, keen on listening to the details.

“In 1942,” Elias started, leaning against the desk as he held his hands together. “They fought the German and Italian Naval forces, and submarine after submarine, they sank each other until they were in constant war. In the midst of chaos, they held barricades at the opening of the Amazon River to prevent Italian and German forces from attacking the country on ground. In 1945, closing in on the end of the war, they infiltrated a German base kept within the edges of the Amazon River. After their suspicious activity was reported by citizens, their cover was withdrawn and identities flagged. After the field military investigated their motives, they gained access to ground plans organized beneath the river."

Elias looked to Jon. “What they originally believed to be a ground attack against Brazil’s capital was instead later speculated to be-”

“A recovery mission,” Jon quickly finished, speaking rather than signing. His voice was rash and broken, catching afterwards as he cleared his throat.

Elias’s lip turned upwards at the finish. His eyes gleamed: relief. “He speaks.” 

“Not for long,” Tim interceded. “You know what he has. The last time he had a fit he-”

“I’m fully aware, Stoker, and I will heed at your advice when I deem necessary.” Elias straightened his composure, offsetting the tension rising in the atmosphere. “Now then, Jon, you’re aware of the obvious outlier in the German’s plans?”

Jon opened his mouth to speak again, but held back. Tim was right: his persistence in speech would irritate his health. Jon had gone through enough coughing fits to supply a hospital, and despite knowing how to care for a closing throat, he’d rather avoid it whenever possible.

Instead, he simply nodded.

Elias sighed, pointing to text on a page outlined with boxes—a graph. “Trades between Brazil and Germany date back to the mid-1800s, marked with their ships and assigned trade numbers. One in particular, Trade #63HP, as standard as the transportation was, it is marked down with one carrier vessel and two naval ships.”

Tim looked to Jon, then Elias. He sat up straight, shifting his feet to stop tapping. “So, what? It was a larger trade, probably building embassy potential for the country’s relations with Brazil.”

Jon shook his head. “It wasn’t trade,” he signed. “It was transport.”

“Even then, Jon, what’s so trivial about this exchange, transport, whatever the hell it was?”

“Maybe if you used your brain—as much as I would love for you to admit your lack of one—you’d read the print,” Elias articulated, a grit filling his voice as frustration piled onto his tone. “I don't have time for your naive games, Stoker. Two naval ships were sent alongside one carrier ship with three marks of inventory: two storage units composed of chemical formula and salt, and another dedicated to an unidentified object—an unidentified thing —which no one has been able to define for over a century—until now.”

Elias opened a drawer to pull out a file, setting it on the desk next to the book, it’s thickness almost equal. “The Asset,” he proclaimed, silence filling the air as Jon processed the file.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Tim muttered, exasperated.

Jon sat forward, watching as Elias pulled the file back towards himself, placing his hands on top expectantly.

Jon cleared his throat, regaining his composure as he spoke again. “I-I… I want to read the file.”

Elias smirked, any attempt to hold back the turn in his lips failing. He opened the folder, revealing a file marked with multiple languages, all spelling out the same Latin phrase: ‘HOMO PISCIS’.

“Glad to have the two of you on the case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [storyandshark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyandshark/pseuds/storyandshark) for letting me cameo literally a sentence from a statement she wrote a while back. It's really cool & you should definitely check it out, as well as her other works!!


	2. The Doubt of Man

**FILE EXCERPT #05**

**Resource File:** The Asset — “homo piscis”

**Direct Translation:** “homo” <homō> / “man” — “piscis” <pis.kis> / “fish”

**Official Classification:** Animalia - Chordata - Mammalia - Primates - Hominidae - Homo - Homo Piscis

-

“We are not going to be in this case,” Tim growled, punching his time card into the slot to check out for the night. “If that snake thinks for another second this is at all sane, he’s got another thing coming.”

Jon followed suit with his own time card, putting his back into the holder, next to Tim’s. He remained silent for the time being, knowing that it would further irritate Tim, regardless of whether or not Jon agreed with him. Plus, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to gain Tim’s attention enough to sign anything.

“I mean, what the hell is he thinking? Transporting some thing—some creature—from the Amazon to us? Does he know how dangerous that could be? How insane it is, especially if Lukas is on board?” He held his voice low as they made their way out the main doors and to the garage, yet his tone showed the same level of vexation. “I don’t remember the last time Peter had ever been on a case—all of the Institute’s background files only mention him when regarding the private address. His speech to the government on our progress, the advancements we’ve made through their funding—it’s all bullshit, isn’t it?” He opened his mouth to continue to argue the logistics—the probability of international controversy by going through with this case—but rather huffed in annoyance, shaking his head.

Jon simply nodded along to Tim’s comments, not wanting to argue with him. He was well aware of the stress in the situation. Hell, Jon felt the same: he was confused, he was irritated, he was burdened.

But he was so goddamn _fascinated_.

It was a step into the future, brought by a figure of the past. A part of the war they had no idea existed. A bargaining chip, a trade, from decades—from centuries—prior. The files date from before the Asset was even proven to exist, to just a decade ago. Maps followed dotted lined paths trailing the supposed movements and migrations the Asset made. Most maps outlined the Americas, starting from the Gulf of Mexico to the mid-Atlantic. Judging by the tears on the outside of the paper material—which Jon had speculated to actually be parchment—and discoloration, some of the maps could be easily dated before the 16th Century. Most of the ink and writing was faded, but Elias had aforementioned the future restorations he would order for them. Until then, they were preserved within a safe in Artefact Storage.

Prior to their lockup, however, Elias had sent them to a copying center, adamant on having an extra copy to have for proper documentation. Jon had followed the assistant in charge of the copying process through the archive, in hopes of being able to make another copy for himself. He’d take them home to observe, to learn, to know.

It didn’t take long for the copying center to clear, where Jon was able to effectively copy the files. He had placed them in his bag along with the tape recorder of Report 194, in hopes of figuring out why it had skipped—expecting to find a simple bind in the tape. In that case, he should have left it in his office. There was no use in taking it to his flat. He didn’t have the right tools to fix anything, but he figured it didn’t hurt to observe it’s exterior for any damage—as if he wouldn’t have noticed any in the first place.

“You coming?” Tim asked, interrupting Jon’s line of thoughts. “I don’t suppose you want to walk home.”

Jon shook his head, giving Tim a faded smile as he stepped into the passenger seat of Tim’s car. He set his bag on his lap, carefully laying it flat as he didn’t want to bend the files.

“What were you thinking about, on our way to the garage? You’ve never been so- er, quiet.” Tim looked to Jon, rolling out of the parking spot and to the security gate.

“Well... Most of the time, actually, I don’t ‘talk’,” Jon signed, sitting forward in his seat. “So, technically, I’m always quiet.”

“Oh, stop being such a smartass, Jon.”

He reached for his identification badge on his shirt, showing it to the security guard, as Jon did the same. As they were cleared for passage, Tim rolled his car forward onto the access road ahead. After a few minutes of silence, a semi-comfortable lull having found its way into the atmosphere, Jon answered Tim’s question.

“The case—I was thinking about the case. It’s… peculiar, it’s unreal. Yes, it’s real, but it just seems so surreal, the first real supernatural subject we get to observe up close—it’s incredible.”

“It’s also unsafe and insane,” Tim followed, as Jon’s captive thoughts refocused.

“Of course it is,” Jon countered. “It is dangerous, but that shouldn’t stop us from learning. You were always the reckless one, wanting to go bigger, to get the action. Well, this is that action-”

“You saw the files. The stories, the ‘myths’—so much for being fake—they speculate that this thing has killed people, Jon. On it’s way here, it destroyed two carrier units on board, almost killing itself in the process.”

Jon rolled his eyes, huffing. “They were abusing it, Tim. You can’t expect something to cooperate if you torture it on the way here.”

“What if it holds onto that anger, huh? What if, halfway through this goddamn investigation, it breaks another unit and hurts people—good people—who never knew it existed?” Tim stopped at a red light, turning to Jon completely. “Are you going to tell me that’s just another consequence I have to face after getting this job? Another sacrifice?”

Jon sat there, not knowing how to respond. He knew what Tim was referring to, what he was thinking of.

The light turned green, and Tim turned back in his seat, focusing back on the road. Jon cleared his throat, the choking silence seeming to affect him directly. He knew Tim wouldn’t look at him again, he knew Tim wanted the subject to drop; however, Jon needed to let Tim know the importance of this—how crucial it is for the future of science, the future of everything.

Tim needed to know, 

 _Jon_ needed to know.

“Tim,” he spoke, his voice as steady as he could possibly make it (which, for someone in his condition, wasn’t that steady to begin with). “I don’t- I know you don’t want something like… something like Prentiss happening again.” He could see Tim press his hands into the rim of the wheel, his body tense and expression stone. “But the Asset- this is different, Tim. She, um, Prentiss- she was involved with chemical warfare, illegal experiments on immigrated citizens—this- this is different. It’s not- goddammit. This is-”

“Another hazard that will hurt more innocent people. I’ve seen this type of naive forgetfulness, Jon—especially when it comes from you.”

“I…” Jon paused, a tense moment of silence filling the car before he continued with an added scrutinization, one he felt he would regret, one he knew he would regret. “What about Liza?”

Tim pushed the brake into a harsh stop in front of Jon’s flat building, causing Jon to fall forward in his seat, nearly bumping against the front dash if not for the seat belt that tightened against his torso. Had he not have been locking his arms against the wheel, Tim would have been in the same situation.

“What about Liza?”

Jon righted himself, releasing the seat belt so it wouldn’t press up against his body anymore. The concrete stare he had expected to come from his comment was absent; instead, Tim held his focus ahead, almost on the glass of the windshield in front of them—that, in retrospect, gave Jon chills worse than if Tim had done the first.

“I...” Jon paused, clearing his throat which felt as if he’d swallowed sandpaper. “I-It’s… Nothing. I just...”

He stopped himself before he could say anything else, looking away from Tim. Silence once again consumed the air around them, and it seemed fit to Jon that he take his leave. He smoothed the bag he held the files in, praying they hadn't folded at the unwarranted, harsh stop. He looked back to Tim, who hadn't much as broke his stare with the window, but had softened his expression, his focus seeming to race through his own thoughts. It was then that Jon finally continued, this time with a softer tone.

“I understand your worry for Liza—for Jack—but Tim… You need to see what they feel.” Jon had begun to convert back to sign, still vocalizing his words, but trailing off towards the end of his sentence. It caused Tim to at least pay attention to what Jon had to say, his head tilting in order to more clearly see the sign language. “You can’t go around shutting out opportunities right in front of you just because of something that happened in the past. It won’t help them, and it won't help you.”

Tim held his breath for a moment after Jon finished, then let it out shakily, his hands relaxing around the steering wheel. He sat back in his seat, taking a hand to his temples as he let out a low, dejected groan.

“Fuck- goddammit,” he resigned. “Alright, _fine_.”

Jon couldn't help but turn his lip up in a smile. “I’ll get to work, then.”

“No, no- that wasn’t the agreement. You need to sleep, and you need to stop talking. Drink some water, or tea—something.”

Jon huffed in annoyance, partially to irritate Tim and partially because Tim knew he couldn’t make tea (well, he could attempt it, but it was always horrible—no matter what he added to it). “You and Georgie, both… I’ll be fine,” Jon signed before he opened the door and stepped out near the pavement.

Tim didn't seem to believe it all that much, but they had been through more than enough conversations on the subject of Jon’s health, as have Jon and Georgie—especially Georgie.

As Tim wished Jon a safe night, Jon waved a reply and watched the other drive away. They had certainly delayed Tim’s drive home, where his partners would be waiting for him. Jon, on the other hand, would be welcomed by masses of files and string laying ahead of him, and he was eager to connect the dots.

He had to get to work and figure out just exactly what they were working with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much guys for the wonderful feedback, it seems that most of you guys are enjoying it so far, which is amazing! I'm gonna try my hand at naming chapters, just little phrases to hopefully spice things up a bit. I apologize that this chapter was shorter, and more relationship based. The first couple of chapters are going to be some big buildup to the future events, so there's gonna be a /lot/ of exposition for the characters, and you can trust me on that. 
> 
> Again, thanks for the feedback and hopefully you enjoyed this chapter!


	3. The Artless Artist

_Ring. Ring._

_Ring._

“Hello? Oh- uh, sorry for the late-night call, Mr. Clarke. My name is Georgina Barker, and I’m calling in regards to my application for the host position for your station. I was notified about a week ago that I’d receive a call shortly, however I still haven’t- well, I still haven't gotten one. I apologize for any disruption this may have caused, as well as any misunderstandings that may come of this. I just wanted to notify you of my home line, in case you would like to contact me after this message. Thank you for your time, Mr. Clarke, and I would love to hear from you soon.”

 _Click_.

The woman sighed, slouching back in her seat after finishing the call and hanging the phone back onto the hanger. “Jesus Christ… _Shit_ , ” she hissed into her hand. "That was horrible."

Another opportunity, wasted. Another job passed.

The Sixties were great. Sure, more women were being introduced to the workforce, but it’s not like that had stopped the same misogynistic stereotypes from occurring.

She had held a job at one of Wiltshire’s talk radio stations for years as a reporter for current events, whether straight from the news or sent in from show guests. They ranged from general events such as a new floor plan for the next-best cinema, to personal accounts of the supernatural.

She was good at her job, until that absolute twat Edward Lewis—one of England’s biggest talk radio personalities at the time—decided to take over more of the lower-end shows, and Georgie was wiped out before she could find another station.

Disappointment aside, she couldn't find it all that surprising. Georgie dragged her notebook in front of her, picking up a pencil to cross out Mr. Clarke’s name and line. As she surveyed the page full of crossed names, it was to her dismay that there were no longer any choices left.

She was now, officially, unemployed.

On any other day, Georgie would have gone out to search for more job listings. Hell, she might have even applied to the cinema that was just a few floors beneath her feet—point being, she needed a job. But, she concluded that it was way too late to even consider doing that, especially since the sun had set hours ago. She was exhausted enough as it is, so she’d postpone the search until tomorrow.

Almost to break her out of the slump of disappointment, a faint _meow_ came from below her, near the legs of the chair she sat in—looking down, she saw a familiar tuft of silver and black. Greeting the Maine Coon feline, she gently combed her fingers through his thick fur, to which he replied by pushing himself against the leg of the chair, back arching in contentment.

The Admiral was a cat Georgie had grown to love more than just about any other living thing in the world—aside from Jon, of course.

She had met Jon just as he had come out of university. He was set up for a decent-paying career, and had enough money to start out in one of the nicer flats in the county. However, once he applied to rent the top floor flat across from Georgie,  the landlord very quickly realized Jon’s lack of speech. With a short temper and a high level of ignorance, the man nearly threw Jon out. Georgie, of course, being one of the nicer residents in the complex, stepped in after hearing the screaming owner nearly beat Jon into the ground. It wasn’t the best way to get to know her new neighbor, but it was better than nothing.

Shortly thereafter, Jon had written to Georgie (who hadn’t understood British Sign Language at the time) an explanation, giving her the rundown on his physical health. Of course, he said that although he had the ability to speak, it could lead to coughing fits and even swelling in his throat, which, at the time, was his prime concern.

His prolonged silence, however, didn’t so much as help his health—his cancer, at that—rather just prevented any further irritation. It made communication as comfortable as it could be, though there wasn’t much comfort in knowing you were the host of potential life-threatening mutating cells.

Georgie worried for him sometimes, but he was a grown adult—shouldn’t she just leave him to his own devices, let him live his life however he wants?

Of course, just when she comes across that question—one she had asked herself multiple times—she hears objects banging and thundering against the floor from one flat over. The Admiral hopped out from under Georgie’s hand, shuffling to a corner of the flat elevated by cabinets, next to the window. He began a low chatter, looking from the window then back to Georgie.

"Dammit, Jon," she sighed, a jovial yet resentful smile tugging at her lips, just as more shuffling came from the neighboring flat.

-

Jon unlocked the door to his flat, stepping inside and setting the keys on their hook. Setting his bag down on the table, he removed his jacket and set it on a chair, moving towards his kitchen to grab himself a drink. He had considered asking Georgie to make him some tea but decided against it after remembering that, one, she would ask him how his day was, two, she would _know_ he had been talking because he _never_ asks her to make him tea otherwise, and, three, he simply assumed that at this time she’d be asleep or out with friends.

Although, Jon noticed that she had been spending more time in her flat, rather than out of it. Whether that meant she spent time alone with herself or with someone else, Jon wasn’t sure of. He just knew that it was none of his business.

Regardless of what Georgie was up to, Jon didn’t want to intervene. The last time she had been over, he’d asked why his tea would always turn out bitter and watered down. She always blamed it on his forgetfulness, how he would start to brew it, then shift his focus to some other project—to work—not paying attention to how long he would leave it in. That, he learned, was the reason why it’d end up bitter. As for the watered-down taste, Georgie assumed it was because Jon would simply just add too much water.

Hell, at this point, she had even marked his kettle where he should fill it up with water.

Turning on the stove, he decided to give it a shot. Knowing he had a few bags left, he figured there was no harm in trying, unless he decided to set his flat on fire. Again.

It was the first time he had tried to brew tea in the building.

Georgie swore he was cursed.

Filling the kettle to the water line Georgie had marked into the side, Jon set it on the stove and reached into the cupboard for a cup and a tea bag. The kettle he had was a hand-me-down from his grandmother, one she had since she was a child. It was made of copper, its shine still peaking through the edges despite being over fifty years old. The only thing that had worn off was the wood handle, which had chipped away sometime during Jon’s childhood. It was still worth something, and as much as he didn’t exactly cherish his grandmother, she did him well. Having to take care of him after her own children wasn’t an easy task, especially since it was him.

Jon was already a handful now—both Georgie and Tim can attest to that. He didn’t even want to know what he was like as a child.

Waiting for the water to heat, he walked back over to the files to lay them all out on the table in front of him. It was slightly bigger than his desk at the Institute, yet managed to be less organized. He had cleared space near his bag, as well as his bulletin board, stacking old statements and tapes to the side, knowing they were irrelevant compared to the “Asset” case. However, he still made sure to stack them with their corresponding files. He may not care about them right now, but it was still work he had to get done eventually.

He just decided that now was not that time.

Opening the folder, he scanned the cover another time: “Homo Piscis”—the direct Latin translation being “fish man”. It was listed in almost every major world language: English, Chinese, French, Russian, Arabic, then Latin. Although Latin certainly isn’t a major-world language, it was scientific. It tied the strange being to humans, as it was placed in the same subtribe—Hominidae.

The next section was a series of sketches—ones he couldn't help but believe to be the Asset. The largest sketch—stretching out the length of a page—was in the form of Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, lining the exterior anatomy. 

It was incredible, it was real—

It was human.

Well, not _human_ , but it resembled one. Jon should have figured as much, considering it shares the same subtribe—but he was still surprised as how human it looked. 

It was covered in fins, lining its forearms and legs, as well as the head and neck—where he assumed gills were as well. The fins seemed to be nearly as large as the limbs they were connected to, notes written on the outline of the circle stating their defensive purpose. Other notes hinted at sharpened senses, the pattern of bioluminescence—its abilities.

Glazing over the next dozen files, he would take them out in their designated sections. From its biology, to suspected purpose, to myths and tales on its existence—the folder seemed to have it all. Of course, Elias had suspected there was more information to get from the Brazilian government, from the British government, but this was more than enough. Out of the few decades the Institute has been introduced—or, at least, publicly announced—Jon hadn’t seen this much background on a case. Even the Prentiss Infest-igation (a combination of the words infestation and investigation), which was dedicated to make inquiries on her ability to infest small towns with a very bloody—and rather contagious—disease. It nearly wiped out half the northern part of England, spreading quickly due to the lack of precaution by health organizations.

It was two years ago, while Jon was just about to finish university.

It was also the year Tim was finishing up his medical degree. He had graduated secondary school years before Jon had, which fortunately allowed their post-grad year to equal out. Jon couldn’t imagine spending more than a few years in a university—he would have given up, if it weren’t for Tim.

It seemed that Tim had a natural trait to help people.

In his final year, as Tim was ahead of his class at the time, he was awarded one of the few advanced spots as a resident at the local hospital. That’s where he had met his partners, Liza and Jack.

They, however, weren’t fellow residents.

Tim had been transferred to observe those affected by Prentiss’ disease—JP-6, they called it.

JP-6 was the utilization of sulfur mustard in its liquid form, contaminating the water supply of two major cities in northern England. More than half of the citizens affected had ingested the chemicals and were admitted to the hospital inches from death—the chemical exposure leading to respiratory obstruction after laryngeal edema and necrosis. The remaining citizens, however, had experienced other cases of exposure, such as direct contact to their skin. They showed symptoms for severe and less-advanced stages of epidermal and dermal necrosis, and some had even developed severe symptoms of gangrene. 

So, when Tim had told Jon about Liza and Jack, he wasn’t all that surprised about the case. It was normal—well, not normal,  but nearly every family in the quarantine zone had at least one member that had contracted the disease, so it wasn’t surprising to hear about a boyfriend mourning over his sick girlfriend. It was typical, at the time.

What’s your concern? Jon had signed. Will she make it, or is she going to… He had stopped there, figuring he didn’t have to sign it for Tim to understand what he meant.

No, Tim cleared. She’ll be fine, we have the right treatment. They were farther down the affected area, so pretty much the last ones to be hit by the disease before we had started giving treatments to patients, which ended up being as close to a cure as we could get.

The thought hadn’t crossed Jon’s mind that Tim wasn’t just concerned about the patients. He had known about Tim’s bisexuality—and although it wasn’t a socially acceptable concept at the time, it had been made fairly clear in the beginning months of their… acquaintance—those few months of getting to know someone before you really know them—that Tim was bisexual. Jon wasn’t quite sure if there was a term for the relationship he was in now, with both Liza and Jack, other than it being an open relationship.

He was more than supportive, they all seemed happy together—Tim was happy. Not that Tim hadn’t been happy before, but this was so much more. University had taken a lot out of him, and he believes it to still be a good use of his time, even if he isn’t actively using it. He had let go of his medical career in order to stay closer to home—to be at home more often—and instead settled with the same profession as Jon, being placed as the Chief Technology Officer at the MAGNUS Institute. His snark and charm had gotten him that position, as Jon wasn’t quite sure where else a medical student would go.

Jon had to admit, though, it wasn’t very surprising that Tim was good at his job. These positions seemed to be natural to him. Regardless of how many other tech applicants there were, he stayed. With the level some of those applying are at, Jon is surprised Elias hasn’t kicked Tim out the door already. He was convinced Elias enjoyed Tim’s attitude.

Which, Jon had to admit, also wouldn’t be all that surprising.

Attempting to refocus his mind to the case at hand, his thoughts were distracted by the familiar screaming in the background coming from the kettle. Pushing the final dozen files to their appropriate stacks, he discarded the folder to his right to another corner of the table.

Holding the cup and tea bag from the counter, he grasped the kettle’s handle to take it off the heat and stop the screech of the hot air.

To clarify: Jon took his hand and grasped the metal handle on the boiling kettle.

It was not his brightest moment.

He had taken the kettle partially off the stove before hissing in surprise, dropping his hand off the handle immediately afterwards. He jumped back as it hit the floor, bouncing off the hardwood and opening the top—boiling water spilling out in the process. Hearing the shattering of ceramic in the midst of minor chaos, he looked down to see he had dropped the cup as well, pieces spread across the floor. 

“Shit! Ah- goddammit!” His words were buzzed and broken, frustration building up in his throat as he looked around for a towel to put down for the water, shuffling to his restroom as he shook his hand to subside the burning pain. Listing out profanities and mumbling to himself, Jon bitterly shoved the towel around the floor to pick up as much of the water as he could, then picked up as much of the shattered cup as he could before moving onto the stove. Shutting it off, he grabbed a cloth with his non-burnt, right hand and picked up the kettle, placing it in the sink. Tossing the cloth back onto the counter, he leaned on the edge and held his shaking hand as still as he could, observing the burn. It was definitely red, but the injury wasn't horrible—the white hot pain had already begun to simmer to a dull, warm throb. Though, he could feel it move to his head, pounding nerves screaming for a compress, something to dull the pain.

The screaming of his nerves reminded him of the kettle, and he hated it. It was loud, it was interrupting.

No wonder he hated making tea.

It was the knock at his door that distracted him from the pain. It paused his nerves for a split second, before they went back to their scheduled firing, his focus wanting to shift back to his hand. He was not ready for a conversation with the landlord. For God’s sake, couldn’t that man just give Jon a break?

He laughed at that. Jon imagined being evicted simply because he couldn’t make a single cup of tea.

Opening the door, where he had expected to see an angry landlord half his size, he was met at eye-level to Georgie Barker and The Admiral at her side, staring up at him with sharp eyes.

“Jon, what’s…” She had started to question, before seeing his obvious pained state. Her gaze wandering to his hands, where his left was shaking from the pain of idiotically grabbing a copper kettle by the bare handle.

“Jesus, what the _hell_ happened?”

Jon laughed—genuinely laughed.  He stepped back, an invitation for her to enter his flat. “I’d offer some tea,” he signed. “But I’m afraid that opportunity has passed.”

Georgie simply stared back at him, dumbfounded.

“Jesus,” she said in an exasperated tone, her head falling down as she massaged her temples with her palms. She stepped into the flat and closed the door as Jon set off to the kitchen to clean up the rest of the mess. “I really should have gone to sleep when I had the chance.”

The Admiral agreed, entering beside her. Georgie huffed, shaking her head with a peeking smile.

“I’ll go grab my first-aid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unfortunately still buildup and more information, but hey! Now we're diving into Georgie's character and got a little Liza and Jack action, so I guess that makes up for it? As well as some physical descriptions of The Boy. I'll pretend I'm holding him off for the plot and not for the fact that I am still solidifying his design


	4. The Unknown Agent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I can only write decent-length chapters on odd numbers, I don't know w h y. I swear, it's just because I have a tendency to write things and end them at semi-tense/cliffhanger-y moments. 
> 
> Definitely NOT because I can't write and refuse to sit at a computer for longer than I need to.

**SHIPMENT PROGRESS:**

**TRADE #63HP - THE “ASSET”**

_09:17—Status: In Progress_

**TRADE #63HP - THE “ASSET”**

_17:26—Status: **C. #RED** _

Note: Complications Rise; Red Level Warning, Interior Damage Within Containment Unit.

**TRADE #63HP - THE “ASSET”**

_21:52—Status: In Progress _

Note: Complication Solved; Blue Level, Interior Damage repaired. Subject Contained.

**TRADE #63HP - THE “ASSET”**

_23:41—Status:_

-

“Hold still, Jon”

“Christ, I’m trying, but- _ah_!”

“Oh, shut up. I’m serious—stop talking, Jon.”

Georgie cut off the end of the bandage, firmly attaching it to the rest around his hand and sitting back, resting against the arm of the couch. She tossed the rest of the wrap into the first-aid kit, then stood up to make her way to the sink in hopes of washing away any remnants of antibiotic cream. Before she had started to bandage him up, she told him to run cool water over his hand, which he had to admit did help. In that time she had swept up the rest of the ceramic tragedy on the floor, as well as thrown the wet towel into the laundry basket. The water was still hot—enough to make her flinch—and wondered if he had water burns.

Now, Jon sat cross-legged on the other side of the sofa, lightly moving his finger across his bandaged palm. He couldn’t close it much, the damaged skin sending shocks of pain at nearly every movement.

“It’s not like I need my hands for anything,” he signed, not caring if Georgie had turned to read it.

Letting out a resentful sigh, Jon stood and overlooked the table in front of him strewn with paper. He had already known Elias wouldn’t exactly be thrilled with him taking files home—but this was different. This wasn’t an everyday statement Jon was sent to transcribe. It’s not falsified evidence and statements to twist the perception society has on what lurks beyond—this is real.

Christ, it’s _real_.

“How was the Institute? I see you have some more bullshit from Elias, is that all one case?” Georgie asked, hinting towards the files on the table.

Jon was unsure how to answer, knowing he could face charges in an instant for sharing classified information with a citizen—but it was Georgie. She had helped him with some of his previous cases before, assisting with investigations. She was aware of the danger she and Jon would be in if Elias—or worse, Lukas—were to figure out someone outside of the Archive was getting this information, so Jon wasn’t too concerned with the risk. He figured, in the past, getting assistance from Georgie on a statement wasn't nearly as bad, considering half of them weren’t even real.

On the other hand, he can’t exactly use that excuse in this situation.

Regardless of the obvious risk—one of many—he figured getting an outside look on the case would help.

“It’s over… something—I’m not quite sure what I want to address it as—but yes, this is all one case.”

Georgie made her way over to the area, tilting her head to read some of the files. She laid her eyes on a diagram, one Jon had looked at previously: the adaptation of da Vinci’s Vitruvian man for Homo Piscis .

“Oh my- Christ, Jon. Is this…?”

He nodded.

Georgie smoothed her hands over her face a couple times, grasping the reality of what was set in front of her. “This? This is real?”

“Yes, otherwise Elias wouldn’t be this concerned about it.”

She moved the papers around, flipping them over to scan the information. Pages outlining the history of Homo Piscis, the suspected "supernatural" abilities it possessed, its whereabouts in the past century; Georgie was observing a spectacle, an eighth Wonder of the World, a being that had the possibility of possessing an inhumane amount of power-

“And this is in England?” Georgie set the file she had read down, stepping back from the table. One thing Georgie loved to do that Jon took too seriously was ask rhetorical questions; no matter how rhetorical it was—how obvious it was to Jon that she knew the answer—

“Of course it is, where else would it be?”

Georgie replied with a blank stare before sighing in easing frustration, shaking her head. She wasn't one to step down from work, regardless of how terrifying it may seem, simply because she seemed to be—well—emotionally immune. This wasn't from a general resistance to fear or hesitant emotion, but rather the way traumatic experiences have affected her.

It was before Jon had known Georgie, her first year of university. It was a gripping experience for her, afraid of people figuring out who Georgie was behind her social mask, afraid of failing her family, afraid of failing the people around her—it was full of fear and pressure.

But, one day, it shifted.

Georgie says she doesn't remember it, that she can't get the details right every time, but both Jon and Georgie know that’s a lie—she remembers every second of it.

She's told him once, and since then it has hardly come up in conversation. Jon supposed it wasn't exactly the best form of small talk, but there were always moments in time that he—or someone completely oblivious to the situation—would mention cadavers, or corpses.

After the incident itself, Georgie had been admitted to a hospital to monitor her mental health. She had shown symptoms of PTSD for months after what happened, but her case was strange—rather than grow numb to uplifting emotions, such as most cases, she was numb to fear—almost expectant of it.

“I can still recognize danger,” she said, “I understand the likelihood of harm, but actual fear?”

“You just… Don't feel it anymore? That’s it?”

She nodded, “That’s it.”

Although she wasn't afraid of the Asset, and wasn't afraid of the risk in bringing it to England, she was very aware of the danger.

“I mean, it was in the Amazon River—the Americas—but it was transported here. I’m not quite sure if it’s in the Institute now, Elias was rather vague about that, but it will be eventually,” Jon continued, attempting to ease the worry as he pulled at some files that were set aside, outlining the trade between Britain and Brazil.

Georgie added a simple nod before shaking her head again, this time in disbelief. “Why here? Why would Brazil give this to us?”

“Maybe it was too dangerous for the citizens to be near? There are reports of multiple victims from Homo Piscis, some surviving and others… not so lucky.”

“Shit, how many reported casualties?”

“Only just under a dozen, though it wouldn’t surprise me if those were only the half of it—some may have never reported it, or were never given the chance to. This is all just what was documented of the… the-”

“The _thing_?”

Jon nodded hesitantly, shuffling his hands to relax them. This being—this thing—was obviously dangerous, its actions were inhumane, but Jon knew how hostility worked. He was aware of the conditions the Asset was under. He was aware of how the guards and scientists aboard the carrier boat treated it—it had a reason to act this way. So many animals are beaten and mistreated solely because they were protecting themselves—so many people are mistreated for the same reason.

He didn’t know if it was his urge to study the Asset up close or his empathy speaking that made him feel this way—he didn’t know if he cared about this being or not.

What he cared about was his research, and that’s it. Elias gave him a case, and he would finish it (he told this to himself, knowing damn well he had a whole stack of unfinished cases leaning over his chair at the Institute, and several more just a few meters away from him).

“So… why would Britain want it?”

Jon blinked at her for a moment, her sudden question breaking him out of his inner thoughts.

Why would Britain want it? Sure, they might have taken it for a scientific perspective, but the way Georgie said "want" put a new thought into Jon’s mind.

“What… What do you mean?” he hesitantly signed, his eyes narrowing, questioning.

“Well, the files—the ones here,” she took a section near Jon’s hands, one Elias had referenced in their meeting. “They say that it was a trade, and those—obviously—go both ways, yeah? Well, what did Britain give to Brazil? There had to be some sort of agreement, right?”

At this, Jon was speechless. He hadn’t thought about that detail, nor had Elias mentioned any trade given to Brazil. His mind immediately went to money, or research files—perhaps research conducted by the Institute was to be given back to Brazil as some sort of shared intel—but Elias would have said something about that, or at least he should have.

“I don’t- I…” He shuffled through the pile regarding the trade itself, searching for any trade of money or Institute files to the Brazilian government, but the paper he landed on was something completely different.

It was a name.

Georgie had walked over to Jon and leaned over the corner of the table, searching the page Jon had picked up. Her expression dropped, confusion lining her features as they scrunched together, her eyes moving across the page and to a box initialed, signed,  and typed with the name of a researcher, a scientist, Brazil’s receiving trade—not so much as a physical source for trade as an intelligence source.

-

**UNDER BRAZILIAN-BRITAIN EMBASSY POLICY,**

**THE FOLLOWING AMBASSADOR SHALL CONSENT AND**

**COMMIT TO ANY EXPERIMENT MANDATED FOR THE “ASSET”:**

-

“What is this?” Georgie asked (another rhetorical question, Jon noted). “An agreement? Why would Brazilian Intelligence send an agent here? I thought intelligence shares were suspended because of the war- Why would…” Her question trailed off as she took the file from Jon, taking a closer look.

Jon leaned against the table, taking off his glasses and sighing into his bandaged palm. He had gotten the impression that this was going to be a different case, considering the subject, but he never thought he’d be working with foreign intelligence, let alone this soon.

Georgie shook her head, setting down the file before turning on her heel. “I’m gonna make some tea,” she sighed, making her way towards the kitchen. Before Jon could interject, she threw her hand up behind her, grabbing the kettle off the drying mat and shaking her head in response. “No objections—at least I’ll remember to grab a cloth for the handle.”

Jon tried to respond, but his efforts were stalled, as Georgie was turned away and couldn’t read him. He held his breath, before letting it out slowly, turning back to the table.

Shifting the papers around, grabbing more of the information about the trade, he scanned them for any other sign of the BI agent: a profile, statistics, experience—anything.

 _Sasha James_ , he thought. _Welcome to England._


	5. The Light of Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note! there was a mistake in one of the earlier chapters on Elias's rank, he's actually the Chief Operating Officer and not the Chief Executive—that's what happens when you forget to refer to your notes, kids (the detail honestly isn't t h a t important, but I still felt like I should mention it, just in case!)
> 
> anyways, carry on! (I also apologize for the wait, I got... kiiinda behind on updating, but hopefully that won't become too much of a habit haha)

The unit containing the Asset, despite the size comparison to the scientists monitoring it, had plenty of limitations. The lack of space, the long days, the long nights—all of it was rather constricting. During the day, they would run tests over the Asset’s vitals, its—his—state of being. Whereas during the night, they would watch him—observe him—marking down his every move, reaction to stimuli, and ability.

Outside of their observations and testing periods, the Asset had a slim period of time where he’d be alone (minus the security cameras lining the room around him). He has time to relax, to think, to sleep, but—of course—not comfortably. Ever since his last breakout, he has been linked to the bottom of the tank, metal cuffs locked tightly to his ankles, pressing uncomfortably against the fins around the area. It allowed for just under a meter of movement, enough to where he was able to touch the glass lining the front of the unit, but not enough for him to reach the top where the safety latch was. Even if he could reach the latch, it was unlikely he would be able to open it. It sealed into the rest of the tank, so his chances of opening it from inside were nonexistent.

Even then, despite the chains still allowing for some general movement, his actions felt as if someone was pressing against him, holding him down. He was unsure if it was the fluid they injected him with or something he wasn’t aware of, but what he felt in the water—in the unit—was similar to what he had experienced before when he was back in the water, his water. It wasn’t quite choking, but it was heavy. A weight that seemed to seize his movements, to slow them—it closed in on him and he could hardly keep his focus if he went too deep.

It had been the same in his other unit, before he had broken the latch.

That unit wasn’t as advanced as the one he had now, but it had the same layout—a constricting tube with a few meters of space for him to move around. However, the safety aspect of it was rather… basic. He was able to unlock the latch from the inside by unscrewing the bolts and jamming the lock itself. As he opened the latch, however, he realized that the feeling he had experienced, the weight that pushed down on him, wasn’t something he had been injected with, but rather the environment of the tank itself.

The air around him loosened, the water grew colder—something he felt as he fell back down into the tank. He had ripped the needles they had placed in him for vitals out of his forearm and reached for the top of the tank.

After he had pushed himself out of the latch, everything went dark. For a split second, he couldn’t see anything but pitch black, his sight taken from him by the lights shutting off completely before the emergency lights kicked in to emit a harsh red glow. It hurt his eyes, seeming to blur his vision. He couldn’t see clearly, he couldn’t think straight—his thoughts running together with the shouting of guards and the clicking of boots against the metal floor.

The events that followed, well, didn’t exactly go as planned.

He knew he had hurt some of the observers—of course it wasn’t his intention, but he had to protect himself. He needed to escape.

At the time, escape seemed possible. Now, he sat reminiscing on that dream in yet another unit.

He didn’t know where he was going, or what these observers were going to do to him. He felt like he was supposed to be okay, to think that everything was going to be okay, that these people were going to help him. Finish their observations and tests, then let him go. Perhaps they’d find another one of his species—maybe he wouldn’t be so alone.

He didn’t know anyone like him, and he was afraid that he never would.

All he knew was that he didn’t feel safe.

He wasn’t safe.

He was _trapped_ , and there was no way of getting out.

-

“Is it ready?” Elias asked, turning towards the group of agents and scientists accompanying him on the observation floor.

“Yes, Mr. Bouchard,” the lead agent, Sasha James, replied. “There were some complications, however, during the transport. We have had two units break under pressure and-”

“I’ve read the reports,” Elias cut her off, stopping her with a dismissive look. “As much as I appreciate the concern, we are well prepared for this… for the Asset.”

Any attempt to protest concern for the Asset’s nature was set aside in the conversation as the door to the observation floor was open, the creaking of the hinges seeming to move throughout the entire room and hang in the air. Elias looked towards the door to see his superior, Peter Lukas—Chief Executive of the MAGNUS Institute.

Peter Lukas stood out in the room of agents, both in a sense of presentation and literal height. His hair was a solid, cream blond with specks of gray growing from the roots, though it was hard to see because of the light color surrounding it. It was just long enough to where if he didn’t pin or slick it back with product, it would fall into his eyes; it was also long enough that it would puff out at the ends, towards his ears and neck. His face was nearly as light as his hair—the result of albinism. With only the slightest bit of color as an undertone, it seemed to blend in with the facial hair growing along his jawline and neck, reaching up to just under his nose for a full beard look, the gray hairs more prominent against the blond.

The feature that stood out the most, however, was a scar on the right side of his face. It started just above his brown, following the curve of his eyes and leaving a light, irregular-shaped scar around the eye itself. His eye was a clouded light blue, the result of the injury and subsequent blindness. The rest of the scar fell down his cheeks and just by the edge of his mouth, where another uneven spot of scarring was left, before following the curve of his chin and to his jaw.

Elias was unfamiliar with the history behind the scar, mainly because it wasn’t something that they had brought up in conversation. It didn’t seem to be a concern to Lukas, despite the fact he now only had one functional eye. Despite the unfortunate loss, he didn’t seem to need it, per se. He had no problem moving around, other than the ebony wood cane he used—on account of a knee injury, he claimed.

Outside of that, Lukas was just as good with one eye as he would be with two.

“Peter!” Elias chimed, walking towards the other as Sasha stepped aside. “Nice to see you could make it to the delivery. Although, considering what you said the last time we talked, I wasn’t expecting you until the afternoon.”

“We talked last night,” Lukas mused, shifting his gaze from Elias to Sasha. “A lot can change in that time.”

“Of course,” he nodded, clearing his throat. “Now if we may continue, this is Ms. James. She’s the-”

“The agent working with us on the Asset?’

Elias nodded again.

Sasha stuck out her hand for an introduction, making sure she was poise and professional. “Agent James, BIA—Sasha, actually, if you’d like. I’ll be working with the MAGNUS Institute for a while, so if it’s all the same, Mr. Lukas, I’d like to just start casual and... skip the formalities.”

“Please, call me Peter.”

Sasha let out a small laugh to ease the pressure of her nerves as Lukas shook her hand in return, giving her a comforting smile.

The way his lip turned up, however—the way it seemed to be a forced gesture, little to no hint of sincerity—made Sasha feel uneasy. She blamed it on her fixation of his scar, the way his skin healed around the spot by the edge of his lip, the way his eye seemed to stare right through her, despite its blindness.

It was very… _Odd_.

Just shaking his hand, the air around them seemed to freeze and force her breath to close in on her throat.

Letting go of his hand, she nodded (not really knowing why), before turning to Elias. Taking a deep breath, she looked between the two men.

“Well then, in that case, shall I introduce you to the Asset?”

-

The Asset pushed himself up against the bottom of the unit—or, at least, what could be considered the bottom now. The tank had been shifted, moved from its original spot. He was no longer in the middle of the observation floor. He could no longer see the door of the room, nor could he see anything.

That flash of darkness before the red emergency lights was now longer, it was prolonged darkness, something he would only see before a storm. After the cold wind, the temperature in the water dropping, it would all come together and form a crash of thunder and shocks of lightning. He would cower deep in the ocean, the river—wherever he happened to be—and wait until the storm would move on.

In the unit—surrounded by glass and solid wall, held down by metal weights—there was no hiding.

The storm was coming, and his fins flared with nerve. The bright luminescence of his fins and lines traveling down his body served as his only form of sight as he looked down to the chains. Pushing himself through the water and towards the lock, he picked it up and started to look around it. It had a key lock, something he was sure he could break given time.

But now, he wasn’t sure if time was an option.

He ran one of his fingers along the edge of the lock, his pointed claw grazing the indentation of the keyhole. It was the same concept as the bolts on the hatch in his last unit, except… not.

God, this wasn’t going to work.

Then, hardly noticing in the light of his own blue hue, the sun seemed to pour straight through the glass of the unit. Dropping the chain with a thud, the Asset pressed himself up against the edge of the tank. He heard voices outside of the glass, perhaps the observers to take the needles out of his forearm—to take him out of the tank.

Instead, what he saw as he moved to the side, still pressing himself up against the metal end of the tank, were unknown faces. One had its hand on the glass, peering inside, staring into the water.

Staring at _him_.

The blue hue of his fins dimmed, shrinking away as complete fear took over.

The face was light, a skin he hadn’t seen before. It seemed to blend in with the light itself, and if it weren’t for the dullness of the water and the effects of the disorienting fluid the observers would inject him with, he’d be able to make out features.

If he didn’t know any better, he would say there was no one there.

Even then, he’d know.

The gaze from this unknown figure seemed to push him down, down further in his tank. He felt himself sinking, pushing through the metal of the unit and then the floor beneath. He couldn’t move, his limbs held down by the weight of the water around him and that damned stare.

It was then the Asset heard a muffled sound, a word—no, a name—coming from one of the other figures directed at the one in front of the tank.

 _Lukas_.

He held that eye contact with the Asset for another torturous eternity before releasing him, turning towards the other two figures.

And smiled, an expression that seemed inappropriate, given the Asset’s obvious fear.

Feeling nauseous in the heavy water around him, the Asset shifted his eyes towards a stick leaning against the tank. It was dark, a heavy brown-black color that ended with a gold cap on—what he assumed to be—the handle’s end.

As the figure—Lukas—stood up from his position, he grabbed the stick. Reaching in the space above the tank and out of the Asset’s line of sight, he dragged the tarp that had been covering the unit back over.

The darkness enveloped the Asset once again, but this time he wasn’t afraid. Being relieved of Lukas’s gaze was lifting, and he felt lighter than the water around him.

It wasn’t long before the Asset recalled the brown-black color of the cane, and how it matched the empty space around him.

Then just like that, he felt himself under the same stare, felt himself gripped by the same fear.

This time, rather than be held down in one spot, unable to move, he felt the unit start to shift.


	6. A Numinous Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully going to get back into the swing of updating every couple of days, next week is going to be... interesting. I'm going to be busy working with a teaching camp, and will get to hang around tiny kids more than I would like to, yay? Enjoy the chapter! Comments and feedback is appreciated!

The morning was dark and stuffy, an overnight storm having clouded the windows with condensation and raindrops still tripping their way down the gutters. It blurred the sight of early-morning workers unfortunate enough to have glasses as they walk by.

_“Only you, can ‘a make, o’ this world seem right.”_

A rhythm and blues record spilled into the flat, seeming to echo in the cold quiet of morning. The light from nearby streetlights broke through the dew of the grass, the reflection glittering back at those observing the streets and pavement below.

_“Only you, and you alone, ca-an thrill me like you do—and fill my heart with love, for only you.”_

A quick, instrumental pause filled the flat, doo-wop piano and drums working in harmony to build towards the next line of verse, the beat melodic and slow—yet still simplistic. A hand reached down to the needle to pick it up and place it on the rest, stalling the music from continuing.

Jon sighed, nothing full of resentment for the music, but rather simply a dismissive gesture to silence the noise filling the air. Looking at the record cover, it was a song by a fairly popular blues vocal group, _The Platters_. Underneath the cover was a small stack of other blues and jazz groups, most of which were American. Georgie had taken a liking to the music, saying it helped her sleep. Of course, she had been asleep for hours. Jon could have stopped the records hours ago, but in the hours passing it kept him company. He'd put them in at random, not really choosing any in particular to fill the air and provide comfort.

Despite Georgie being asleep on his sofa, curled up warmly in a blanket, protecting herself from the cold air within his flat (a personal preference for Jon), there were always the rather unreasonable hours of the night—or, very early morning—that were lonely.

Although, despite his restlessness, the welcoming signature of sleep deprivation pulled itself into the next day as he tried to wake his senses. Taking off his glasses, he focused his tired mind on the thought of relaxing, massaging his temples in hope to relieve his eyes of stress.

He took this moment to sit back, having found his way back to the table, and revel in the project he had spent the night over. Whatever photos, whatever files were placed in that folder marked “The Asset” now hang from pins and tape attached to his cork board, strings tying up every loose end to the case up until the present.

Jon felt a hint of accomplishment as he looked from one end of the board to the other. If only he were this organized with the work on all of his other cases—hell, he might even get them done this way. Although his reviews on the statements weren’t exactly that important, he would prefer all the details be present. In order to summarize the statement effectively, he would appreciate it if Elias would give him the time to look through the statement multiple times—though surely even just having to transcribe those recorded in audio was enough to allow some assessment.

The thought brought him back to the statement he had started to transcribe the other day—the one on Cordelia Matthews and her… fascination, Jon recalled, with the ocean.

It wasn’t a specific detail in particular that bothered his mind, pushing for him to listen to it again, but rather the fact that it wouldn’t play.

Elias said, in his office, that he had already reviewed the tape, so why would he send it to Jon in the first place? He assumed that perhaps it was a mistake—that Elias had meant to send him a different one—but he knew. He knew what statement Jon was referring to, otherwise he would have questioned why Jon had the statement in the first place. He called the report by number—Report 194—so Jon couldn’t help but suspect the tape was damaged between the times Elias had reviewed it and when it was placed in the Archive.

He had tried to take a look at it last night, but his attempts to repair the tape were useless, not having the proper tools available to him at his flat. He would visit the tech department once he got to the Institute, but for now, he focused on the few sentences he could get out of the statement.

“I’ve never really been afraid of the ocean. Or have I? I don’t know anymore, what is me and what is me. I am real now, but I’m not sure if the other me was fake or just… unenlightened. Unknowing, perhaps, though mine tells me that doesn’t belong to us. That belongs to another, something that has never been me or-”

That’s when the tape cuts off.

Jon had so many questions, the first of which being: what does Cordelia mean by “mine”? Jon thought that “mine” could possibly refer to a partner of sorts, perhaps someone involved with Cordelia romantically.

Although, at the same time, Jon didn’t believe it was a physical being. As insane as it sounded—as if Jon knew any better—he believed this to be an imaginative force. A relationship constructed by Cordelia to fulfill her need for this emotion, to be happy—no—to be enlightened.

She describes the “unknowing” less as an emotion—the feeling of being left out, the lack of knowledge—but instead as a physical attribute, a physical item.

She goes on to claim she is enlightened by “mine”—whoever, or whatever, that represents—and that she was never truly destined to be unknowing, unaware. Always searching for the answers, the right mind, the true path sent out for her. Having never been afraid of what was before her—that she can recall, at least—led her to meet her partner—whatever being that compelled her to approach enlightenment.

Without that compulsion, without that need, she’d be lost in the ocean, lost in the vast. Searching aimlessly in the darkness no country or military could dare explore, all in fear of being overpowered. The urge to find what was lurking in the vast was a state of mind Cordelia was so desperate to fill—a search for the key to its lock, a solution to a problem.

It was the final details of a case before it was all pulled together. It was every string connected perfectly, every page lined with answers to all of Jon’s questions he had asked himself over the last 12 hours.

Jon had listened to just under a minute of Cordelia Matthews’ statement and yet he knew everything. Every desperate measure she took for the being, for the ocean, he understood.

He understood because he felt the exact same way.

That mutual, burning desire to learn, to know, Jon needed to search through each individual detail of the case and understand it, fully understand, but to do so would include meeting it—the Asset.

Lamentably, he had no idea when it was supposed to be transferred to the Institute. Hell, he hardly knew where they would put it. Though he knew that the moment it arrived, the second Elias would mention its presence, Jon needed to see it.

He wasn’t quite sure why, but he just knew.

Until then, he was stuck with the tape and empty time. Sure, he could delve into the history, its origin, but Jon was already too distracted by its physicality, the true reality of its existence.

He was so transfixed in the case already, and it was too late to back out (not that he would). Sometimes he wondered how other people couldn’t see the unco brilliance and grandeur, especially Tim, in this situation. Of course, Jon knew his history with the Institute’s more… involved cases, and how it handled the events, but that was the past. Those were legitimate, real problems that the government had anticipated, knowing the threat’s intentions.

But the Asset? It couldn’t be more different.

Jon had been stuck reliving the same statements, the false truth filling his mind with useless information, and it was debilitating. But he thought, maybe this case would change that.

He needed something new, a case he could learn from, one he could write hundreds of pages about—one he would never forget.

Jon pulled himself out of his thoughts, knowing he didn’t have much time before he would need to get ready for the day ahead of him. He looked at the clock before turning to the window. The sun would come up soon, he figured, but its light would hardly make it past the dark, heavy clouds. The streaks of water on the window were beginning to fade away, but the fog replaced it with growing humidity. He could practically feel the weighted air push through the walls of his flat.

Stretching his legs, Jon walked over to his room to pick out some new clothes. Getting little to no sleep was a habit he tended to show in his appearance, and he wasn’t exactly fond of other people’s concern on the matter. He figured if he managed to look decent with a change of clothes, he might pass it off as just having a rough night.

Looking in the mirror, he came to the conclusion that he didn’t look too bad, his hair a manageable mess—though not nearly as tossed and out of place as it usually is in the morning.

Deciding to just run a hand over and through his hair, Jon finished the rest of his morning routine—freshening up, getting a drink, and sorting everything he needed into his messenger bag—before heading down the hall and towards the steps leading outside. Since the complex was built on top of a theatre (which was now converted to a cinema) the actual entryway was up a set of metal stairs, as if they’d converted an emergency exit into a proper stairwell. It was safe, but questionable nonetheless.

He checked one last time to make sure the tape was in his bag, secured to the player to avoid any more damage. He didn’t have any files to take back to the Institute, even the ones he deemed useless to the Asset’s case. They all had a place on the wall, a connection. Every string was important, and Jon was going to try his hardest to utilize each and every detail.

Starting with the tape.

He leaned against the brick of the building, damp enough to cool his back, but dry enough to avoid leaving a wet spot on his jacket. Jon rested his eyes, waiting until he heard Tim’s car round the corner.

Sounds of the early morning filled his head, running water dripping methodically overhead and out the gutter, filling the silence of the thick air; the buzz of yellow street lights supplying anyone near them a sense of growing anxiety, looking around desperately to avoid moths and insects alike; and a dog, distant but present, shaking its body of the wet night and skipping away, the click of nails against asphalt rounding the corner at the end of the street.


	7. Forgive and Forget

“You look horrible.”

Jon sent a mild glare towards Tim as he settled into the passenger seat of the car, laying his worn messenger bag next to him. He brushed some wrinkles off of his pants, before turning back to Tim. 

“I look _fine,_ thank you very much,” he signed, except this time he signed with one hand due to his, well, incident last night. He had wanted to check it early that morning, but knew that if he undid the bandage he wouldn’t be able to piece it back together. “At least I’m not the one who puts the gel equivalent to concrete in his hair every morning.”

“It's a _pomade,_ and Jack likes it,” Tim defended as he shifted the vehicle to drive. 

“And Liza?” 

“Oh, Christ- shut up.” He swatted at Jon’s hands (not actually hitting them, as he had noticed the bandage, and Jon had pulled his hands away before Tim even got the chance). Truth be told, Tim knew Liza hated it. 

Well, actually, “hate” wasn’t the right word. She simply thought it made Tim look too “dolled-up”. Although, perhaps it was in a loving way. Knowing Liza, it was more than likely just another one of those flirting methods she used against him. 

Whether or not she actually liked the pomade, Jon would never figure out. Tim and his partners had a special type of communication—one Jon would also never figure out. It was all in Tim’s language, and although Jon could understand Tim—most of the time, at least—this was a whole new level. 

Tim broke the conversational lull that had been filled with low instrumentals coming from the radio with the obvious question, one Jon had been waiting for. 

“So... what the hell did you do to your hand? I tell you to sleep and you, what, cut your palm open?”

Jon scoffed, the edge of his mouth just barely pinching upwards into a grin as he looked out the window. For a moment, he didn’t answer Tim, figuring the scoff was enough of an answer. He hoped in this time, on their way to the Institute, Jon could find a small break of time where he could clear his mind, where he could relax. 

That thought was cleared away once he forced himself to sit up, gaining Tim’s attention before signing one word: “Tea.”

A second passed—then another—before Tim finally realized. 

“You bloody-” he paused, unsure if he was even surprised, “You burned your hand on the kettle ?” 

Jon groaned, resting his face in his hands and pushing his glasses up to his forehead, ridiculous embarrassment and regret filling his bloodstream as it practically glowed through his hands. 

Tim laughed from the other seat, being able to see right through Jon’s mask covering his distress. Tim had nearly burnt himself on the kettle one day when he, Liza, Jack, Jon, and Georgie had all gotten together, but he had realized the heat before he even touched it. 

They were all convinced Tim would be the one to burn himself, so this turn of events was nice. 

“There’s no way you’d be able to wrap your hand that well, so I assume Georgie helped?” Tim inferred, raising an eyebrow. Jon nodded and fixed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, looking at the bandage. Surely he would be able to copy it, it wasn’t that hard, was it?

Oh, don’t lie to yourself, Jon.  

“She heard the noise and came over. She said it wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t just a surface burn. Something around the middle?” Jon questioned, feeling the bandage. 

He had remembered the tiny, melting hot knives itching and scratching his skin as the cool water poured over his hand. The burning sensation, almost as if he were still touching the handle. It echoed in his nerves, firing back and forth between brain and palm. It was dizzying to think about, the feeling starting to tickle its way back into Jon’s mind. 

“I’ll take a look at it once we get inside,” Tim suggested, turning another corner and down the access road of the MAGNUS Institute. “You’re lucky I keep a kit in my office. It’s not much, just a few bandages, but it’s what you’ll need. A burn from a kettle shouldn’t be too bad, at the most it should blister, maybe break if you put too much pressure on it. Depending on the type, I may or may not have to, well- I’ll figure it out.”

Jon just nodded in response, watching the edge of the road as they grew closer to the building. Although Tim was out of practice—an unfortunate career shift before he was accepted into the MAGNUS Institute—he still used most of the information and methods he learned in university. Despite that not being very surprising, it was something Jon enjoyed seeing. Tim, as sarcastic and uncaring as he seemed, was undeniably benevolent. 

Although, his giving nature wasn’t as open as it used to be. His sense of risk and perceived dangers controlled his decisions, almost holding him back. It was one of the only things Jon understood about him, the only aspect about Tim that he figured out from day one. Tim avoided putting others at risk simply because he was afraid of losing them. He wanted to protect the people he was close to, even if he didn’t know them personally. 

Jon wasn’t too informed on the details as to why, but he knew it had to do with Danny. 

It was a harsh subject, one he didn’t like to bring up much.

Jon means well, and Tim knows it. Jon understands. 

To Tim, that’s the least he could ask for—someone to understand. 

“IDs,” the guard asked, his eyes glazed with the same early-morning look as ever. Tim grabbed his off his belt, and Jon reached for his jacket pocket, but rather than pull out the hard plastic, he felt nothing inside. 

_Oh shit._

It’s fine, it wasn’t a big deal. He just forgot his badge at home, simple as that. The guard sees them every day. Why would one time matter? It’s not like Jon wasn’t Jon. He wasn’t exactly sure what kind of person would want to impersonate him, of all people.

“Jon, your ID,” Tim repeated, ushering him on. His voice was low, almost as if the guard wasn’t supposed to hear. 

“I don’t have it,” Jon replied, his signs quick and messy as he sorted through his bag, the only contents being old papers, pens, a notepad, and the tape recorder. “I must have left it in my other shirt, I wasn’t- I forgot.”

Tim stifled a fit of laughter, holding himself together in front of the guard as Jon’s anxious search through the messenger bag repeated itself again. 

Tim turned towards the guard, who was waiting expectantly for a second badge. “He lost his badge, must have fallen out of his pocket before he left the flat. Is there any chance you could input his ID number?”

“I don’t know my _ID number_ !” Jon signed behind Tim, who flashed him a mischievous grin. Oh, he _knew_ Jon hadn’t memorized his ID number.

God, Tim was such an ass.

Before the guard was given a chance to answer, the phone inside the booth started to ring. Tim looked around the guard, who seemed hesitant to answer. He kept staring at Tim, still expecting a badge and ignoring the phone. 

“I mean, I can get out and answer it for you, if you’d like,” Tim offered between rings. 

The guard took a second to force a smile on his face before turning to the phone, his expression fading just as quickly as he finally answered the call. “Front entrance security gate, Jameson.”

There was a hushed exchange of words between the guard and the other end of the line before the gate in front of them lifted, much to their surprise. Jon looked up, confused, and Tim shared the same expression.

“From Mr. Bouchard, you are to meet him in his office once you get inside. Go on ahead,” Jameson said, before sweeping his hand towards the building’s garage. 

Tim looked to Jon, mild suspicion crossing his face before he shrugged, turning to thank the guard before proceeding. Neither of them had to pay much mind to it, as they both knew the answer as to what just happened. Now, the question was why.

“How did Elias know it was us?” Jon signed, shuffling in his seat a bit as they entered the garage, going up to the main level where Tim’s usual parking space was.

“He had the security cameras linked to monitors in his office, you know that. He was probably waiting for us, the creepy bastard.”

Even if he didn’t have the cameras, Elias always seemed to be aware of what was going on. He was very organized, very knowing. Always wanting updates on any cases in progress, always needing to know who is where, at all times. He was a man with connections, but oftentimes those connections seemed surreal. 

Jon had to admit, it was rather ominous. 

Despite Elias calling them to his office, Tim insisted he look at Jon’s hand before they go. 

“It won’t even take that long,” he said, pushing his and Jon’s time cards into the machine slot to check in. “Just don’t be an idiot and hurt yourself again.” 

Jon sighed, following Tim down the line of hallways and various MAGNUS centers, spotting each camera along the way. They were placed in almost every corner, mapping out every inch of the Institute. Of course, it had its chosen blind spots that workers would abuse to pass around a cigarette—a sight that ripped at Jon’s throat, the smoke always finding its way onto his clothes and staying there, no matter how far he would keep himself from those areas. 

Sometimes, it got really, really hard to avoid them. 

It was at times like these, when it was early enough that the workers would still be at their houses, or flats, that the smell would be gone—or, at the very least, faint enough to where Jon didn’t think about it as he walked by. 

As soon as they entered Tim’s office, the beeper placed on his desk from the previous day started to buzz and sound off. Jon felt his stomach twist, the feeling—that familiar wrench—similar to a kid being caught in the middle of a mischievous act. 

Tim picked up the pager, accepting the audio message sent through.

“I asked for you and Jon to meet in my office as soon as you got into the Institute, is there a problem I wasn’t aware of?” Elias' voice rang through the receiver, a passive aggressive tone following the question. 

“Oh wow, I’m surprised, Elias—er, sorry, Mr. Bouchard—there’s something you’re not aware of?”

Oh, how lovely. 

Jon signed to Tim, asking where the first aid was and let them carry on their conversation. He couldn’t tell whether or not Tim was actually trying to actively get himself fired, or if he just enjoyed the thrill of angering Elias. Typically, Elias could handle it. He had been through enough of Tim’s quips and comments to understand it was all just play, but given the shift of pace with the Asset now being moved to the MAGNUS Institute, Elias didn’t have much time or patience to deal with it.

By the growing tension and frustration in his voice, this was definitely one of those times. 

“The Asset is here.”

Tim froze. Jon’s muscles tightened. 

Elias continued, his voice stern and level. “Meet me in my office within the next five minutes, or I will change my mind about the case, as well as both of your Institute positions.”

Another round of beeps, and the room was left in complete silence. 

It stayed that way for another few seconds, time seeming to freeze in the sudden shift of atmosphere. Tim finally broke the silence, clearing his throat before speaking. 

“Well, that was fast, wasn’t it?”

Jon let out a dry laugh, high and quick. He leaned over the desk in front of him, not paying any mind to the burning sensation of added pressure on his left hand. His stomach twisted and lurched, a feeling he couldn’t define. 

It was here. The Asset was _here_.

“We, uh-” Tim started, but—for once—was speechless. “We should really go- I mean,” he laughed, an attempt to ease the tightness in the air. “I guess we don’t have much of a choice?”

Jon took a moment before nodding, leaving the kit on the desk. It could wait. Right now, they had to focus on the case. 

They were at Elias’ office steps within the next few minutes, Jon hurrying up the flight of stairs faster than he’d like to admit. Tim was trailing behind, looking up through the front window of the office ahead of them.

It was similar to that of a lookout, peering over the main room of the Institute. It had hundreds of files and recordings, but this was just the first of many archival units in the Institute. There were thousands of files throughout the entire building, just from what Tim had seen. Knowing Elias and his tendency to store “confidential” files away from the Institute’s database, there could be thousands more. 

Tim was assured that one day he’d be able to gain access to the files. He was the goddamn Chief of Technology, he was supposed to update their systems, monitor their tech efficiency, and make sure the database is up to date. It was a little difficult to manage when your Chief Operator kept files stowed away in a private safe. It was in the Institute, somewhere in the building, but Tim wasn’t sure where. 

But, that wasn’t the focus. He wasn’t concerned about how many files they had stored away—for the time being. They had a new case, one he couldn’t move away from. No matter how much he hated the idea, Jon loved it. He accepted the case before he even had a chance to think, before he even considered the risk. 

Jon and his learning nature.

He’d give anything to hook onto something new, something fresh.

And this?  

This was a _prime_ example of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, the fic should really just be called "Shitty Jon and Tim antics at 5/6 AM"


	8. Where Time Slows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to actually go up a couple days ago, but I got caught up in side projects, so I apologize!!

Elias opened the door to his office as they approached, gesturing for them to enter. “Thank you two for coming,” he started, a welcome forced through his teeth in order to dismiss their disagreement earlier. “As much as I want to lead with the noticeable problems in our communication-” Elias emphasized the "our" in a way that really meant Tim, a detail anyone in the MAGNUS Institute—who had a general idea of the “Stoker-Bouchard Dynamic”—would notice. “-I suppose for now, we should just focus on the case and get back to work. If it’s all the same to you two…?”

Jon nodded, a little too quickly to (hopefully) shift the subject back to the Asset.

Rather than answer the question, Tim looked past Elias, and to the other figure in the room: a man dressed in light and turned towards the monitors lining a section of the back wall in Elias’ office.

Elias noticed Tim’s focus shift and grinned.

“Jon, Tim, I’d like you two to meet the Chief Executive.” Elias walked them towards the imposing figure, the style of his dress and natural aura seeming to overpower everyone else in the room, even the previous holder of that power. His height alone was enough to make Jon feel the same inferior pressure he felt as a child, constantly harassed by the older, and natural, taller kids. The atmosphere now revolved around Lukas, a power Elias previously held but was now taken. It was ineffable, considering Lukas was the CEO, but seeing Elias being the smaller figure—no longer being the one with the most power, well, it was unnerving. Even for Tim, who couldn’t wish for anything more than to see Elias in a lower power.

“Peter Lukas,” his voice rang, confident and bright in sound. “But please, call me Peter.”

Jon could barely move, the strength it had taken to raise his hand to shake Lukas’ nearly grounding. He didn’t know whether to speak or sign—a choice he hated making, especially in someone like Lukas’ presence.

He looked to Tim, a desperate look hidden in his eye, one Tim recognized almost immediately.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peter!” He chipped, his voice mimicking a tone Elias would have shot down, had he gotten the chance. He extended his hand to Peter, who took it gleefully. “Another officer who finally agrees with my level of professionalism. I’ve tried to convince Mr. Bouchard to let me call him Elias for years. I couldn’t tell you how twisted he gets sometimes.”

Lukas shared a laugh—a smooth, bouncing sound—that, as reserved as it was, seemed to echo within the office. Tim let his hand fall back to his side, hooking his thumb around a belt loop on his slacks.

Christ, Jon was envious of Tim’s ability to be so relaxed, so willing to shift into this other person—it seemed impossible for Jon.

Elias composed himself in front of Lukas after Tim’s comment, pushing himself to laugh along with them. “I believe in real professionalism, Stoker. But, perhaps…” Tim knew Elias was pulling words out of his ass, an effort to keep his own professionalism up in front of Lukas.

“If you start acting appropriately in my office, I might ease my standards and consider letting you address me differently than how you should now,” Elias nodded, squaring his shoulders before letting them fall again, a clear sign of discomfort, which Peter took for entertainment.

“Don’t worry about Bouchard, Tim. He’s as stubborn as he was when I first met him. Maybe a little less so with me, but that's just because I hold more power than him.”

Elias opened his mouth to object, but Peter sent a look his way that shut him up. Tim nearly burst out in a fit of laughter at the gesture before Jon elbowed him in the side, preventing him from doing so. Instead, Tim continued the conversation with Lukas.

“I’ve read all about your private addresses to the council back a couple years ago. I’m the CTO, so it’s kind of my job around here.”

“I’m aware,” Lukas replied, the statement seeming to conclude the conversation between him and Tim at the moment. He then shifted the focus to Jon, who he had not yet addressed and found appropriate to do so now.

“So, I assume you’re Jon, then? The Chief Archivist?”

Jon's eyes swung back and forth across the room, as if he had forgotten the concept of gravity. He felt that familiar rotting in his stomach that pushed to be free, one that filled him with sickening doubt, fear—sickening dread. 

Oh shit.

Jon looked back and forth between Tim and Lukas, unsure of how to proceed. He didn’t want to speak, as he already felt his throat closing up from the growing anxiety, his thoughts running together and nerves firing in every direction.

“Jon is actually, uh- mute, Mr. Lukas,” Tim replied, speaking for Jon. “The condition he’s in, well—it’s better that he doesn't talk. It could make his condition worse, so he just communicates through sign language. I typically act as his translator, since it just makes it easier for everyone else.”

Lukas nodded, understanding. “That’s completely fine, I have no problem with it. I just wasn’t aware.” He turned to Elias, a questioning look on his face. “You... didn’t tell me?”

Elias shook his head, seeming just as confused and thoughtful Lukas was. “It actually slipped my mind. I hardly notice it myself, in a figurative way of course. Jon is an excellent employee—speaking or mute. It rarely interferes with his work.”

Lukas nodded again and looked back to Jon, straightening his posture a little bit—a movement Jon couldn’t help but feel was meant to remind the office’s inhabitants of Lukas’ overwhelming height.

“Alright then, I’ll make sure to do my research. You seem like a wonderful Archivist, and I’m sure there will be times in the future I’ll need to work with you one-on-one.” He gave Jon a reassuring look, one Jon couldn’t help but reply with a smile, but the expression was forced, his nerves in the process of pushing him over the edge.

“Now, if you three don’t mind me leading the subject a little bit, should we get started? Peter?” Elias motioned for the desk, where quite a few files—ones Jon didn’t recognize—were placed.

Peter’s expression brightened at the question, affirming that they should move on as he turned towards the desk. “Ah, yes! I suppose we should, it's the reason we’re all here, after all."

“What are these?” Jon signed, referencing the files as Tim translated to the others.

“The observations and vitals recorded over the course of the Asset’s transport to England. We received the final report this morning, and it’s quite the read. Though, I’m aware they updated you over the transport, is that correct?” Lukas asked, Elias replying with a nod.

“I’ve given them a brief outline of the… unlikely events that have occurred on board, as well as a copy of the Asset's files, but I wanted the complete work here in the Institute before we started getting into specifics. They- well, actually... I didn’t mention their involvement in the case until late yesterday afternoon.”

Lukas seemed surprised, almost taken aback at the lack of preparation Jon and Tim seemed to have for the case. Jon noticed his expression and thought, just for a moment, that he saw a bit of frustration. Had Elias known about the Asset longer than Jon anticipated? Exactly how long had he been keeping it away from them?  

Lukas dismissed the subject with a sigh—one sounding forced and content, just shy of disappointment—a sound Jon found rather inappropriate in the situation.

“I would like for them to study the Asset, to fully understand its… capabilities, before we continue,” Lukas announced, standing firm in his decision to withhold their progress. “There were workers hurt on that carrier, and I would hate to lose one due to preventable mistakes.”

Elias began to talk about the probability of the Asset breaking out again, discussing with Lukas, Tim, and Jon the safety precautions they had taken in the Asset’s new unit in the Institute to prevent similar events—such as those on the carrier—from happening again.

Tim listened to every detail, his motivation for the case nothing more than to keep others safe. However, Jon was the complete opposite. He couldn’t hear a single word.

The room around him seemed to drown itself away, static filling his ears and mind, his focus shifting away from the others. His lungs twisted and compressed themselves as the realization hit him, and he felt the overwhelming sensation of vertigo (which he wasn’t sure if it was because of what Lukas had said, or because he hadn’t slept—knowing him, it was probably both).

This feeling, this swaying, disorienting feeling struck him like a force to his gut simply because Lukas didn’t think they were ready. Elias didn’t think they were ready.

Jon couldn’t disagree more.

Both Jon and Tim were well aware of the Asset, as well as its dangers. Though Elias’ meeting with them was short and he had just barely skimmed the surface of the Asset’s file, it was enough.

It was enough for Tim, given his motivation against the Asset and its involvement with the Institute.

It was more than enough for Jon.

He studied, he pressed, he read. He organized each and every file on that board in his flat, and he understood. He was so fascinated, so entranced by this being, this alive, real wonder of the world, that he needed to look through every paper with its name on it.

Jon was ready—more than ready—to start the real investigation. He just didn’t know how to prove it.

He forced himself to refocus on the conversation, regardless of how disappointing it was to hear that their chances of seeing the Asset now were zeroed out rather quickly. He would talk to Elias—surely, Jon would be able to see it then. Elias knew how interested he was in the case, and was well aware of the pace Jon worked. There was no doubt in his mind that Jon was ready, or at least there shouldn't be.

So, why was he holding it off?

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Lukas began, the conversation seeming to come to a close as he stood up, having leaned against Elias’ desk as they talked. He pulled a business card out of his ragtime long coat, handing it to Tim and Jon. The name was more than familiar to Jon, having read it on a list of scientists and agents involved shipping the Asset overseas. It was the agent in charge of overlooking the MAGNUS Institute’s observations, the one they’d be working with. 

“Sasha James, she’s an agent over at the BIA—Brazilian Intelligence Agency,” Lukas noted. “I’m looking forward to her involvement in the case. She’s finalizing her stay in England right now, so unfortunately you may not be able to meet her in person until later today, or perhaps tomorrow at the latest.”

“How many people are working on the case, if I may ask?” Tim questioned, shifting his feet. Jon was unsure if this movement was unintentional or Tim expressing discomfort. 

“Not many. There are very few others that will be involved, but they are mainly for sustaining the Asset’s health and taking samples for the time being… unless you find a need for more people, or for less?” Lukas was curious, practically digging through Tim’s expression and tone to find his motive for the case. His own expression was stone, level and neutral—unreadable.

Tim shook his head, bordering on speechless at the accusation. “No, I- uh, I trust your judgement, I was just wondering. Jon and I haven’t really been on a case this- uh- this involved.”

Lukas’ countenance was held for another moment before he eased, shifting his demeanor back to normal—or at least what seemed his “normal”. A relieved smile lifted from the edges of his lips, and he seemed more content than before.

“Good,” he said, the word smoothing itself through the air.

The silence that filled the room afterwards was choking, even to Elias. It wasn’t from any tension, no intense feeling that made Jon more nauseated than he already was. The room was just—for lack of a better explanation— heavy.

Jon could feel it. He could feel the cold, metal walls and thick glass pressing into his sides. He had felt the cold press when Lukas had gripped his hand in a firm handshake. Even after nearly half an hour, the gesture echoed in his mind. It froze his entire hand, crawling up his arms and into his chest. It ran across his body and into his left arm, numbing his bandaged hand.

The memory of peppermint, of cold, dark winter mornings, was stale. Frozen in a filter of black and white, faded and losing its exposure.

Perhaps his nerves got the better of him, his mind anxious enough in the moment to make that assumption fairly reasonable.

But even then, now that the time was over, now that he had nearly forgotten the effect that single handshake had, his nerves came firing back.

“Before I leave, Mr. Sims- er, Jon?” Lukas paused after his name—a question of formality, as if Jon had any say in how he was referred to. “If I may ask, what exactly happened to your hand?”

Despite Jon being hesitant to answer truthfully, he began to sign a simple, general excuse, describing how the injury was simply just a small burn, one he did in an accident.. Even though it was an accident, Jon still wanted to save as much of his dignity as possible by reserving the true details. He realized very quickly that burning your hand on a kettle you’ve had since you were a child was awkward to admit, so he wasn’t not about to let that embarrass his impression on Lukas as much as he already had.

“It’s just an accidental burn,” Tim translated before adding a comment of his own. “Nothing too serious. I was actually about to take a look at it, just make sure everything’s good, see what degree it is. Then, of course, we were called here and I, well,” he shot a glance towards Elias, a knowing look in his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to keep Elias waiting.”

Elias scoffed, a natural grin escaping his lips as he was unable to uphold his professionalism. He couldn’t help but supply Tim with some satisfaction, as he understood the lengths Tim went to crack a smile. Professionalism was important, but when the CEO was present—when Lukas was present—Elias was going to put at least some effort into not being a total bastard.

“That’s quite thoughtful of you, Tim. I remember when we first met, you mentioned you were studying for a medical degree, am I correct?” Lukas questioned, a particular hush in his voice at the mention of their first meeting.

Their first meeting?

“Yeah, that’s right.” Tim shifted in his spot again, taking his hands out of their position at his side and crossing them in front of his chest. It was a movement that seemed so natural, yet tense in the situation. Jon could hear the unease, the pressure seeming to build in Tim, yet he didn’t know why.

Had him and Lukas met before?

“If it’s all the same to you two—Peter, Bouchard—could Jon and I get back to my office so I can, y’know, make sure he doesn’t have an infection?” He forced a laugh, a low sound that wasn’t convincing enough to ease his impatience, nor Jon’s curiosity.

“Actually, Tim, I’m going to hold you back for a minute to discuss some… issues. Nothing serious, just a few questions and concerns I have regarding one of our systems.” Elias took a step back and circled his desk, reaching into his coat pocket for a key. “However, it is something I’d want to talk with you about alone. So Jon, if you’d follow Peter he’ll take care of your hand while I discuss this private matter with Tim.”

Jon’s stature straightened, a tense force of nerves and confusion gripping his muscles. Tim’s expression lined itself with confusion and slight concern, especially on Jon’s part. “The nurse staff doesn’t arrive for another hour, I thought-”

“Don’t worry yourself, Stoker,” Elias interrupted, giving him a reassuring look—which wasn’t actually reassuring at all. “Peter knows his way around basic first aid. He doesn’t need a medical degree for this type of care.”

Tim simply replied with a short laugh that seemed to turn out more as a scoff, trimmed with agitation pointed directly at Elias.

“You really shouldn’t worry, Tim,” Lukas heartened. “If it’s as minor as it seems to be, it shouldn’t be such a concern, now should it? Although, if it’s simply just a desire to use your degree in this Institute, I’ll inform you right now that the Asset has the complete ability to test your medical knowledge. Now whether I’m referring to the anatomy of the thing, or rather the fact that it can—and has—injured many people, is completely up to your interpretation.”

Lukas ended the comment with a smile, warm and stretched, covering for the bold, daring tone that lined his words.

“Now, I suppose we should leave you two to talk?”

Jon looked to Tim and Elias, who both looked at each other before nodding in response. Jon then turned to Peter, who was waiting for him by the door expectantly. He had barely noticed his legs move underneath him before he was outside of Elias’ office and going down the flight of stairs, following Lukas.

“So Jon, how much do you know about the Asset?”


	9. A Duel of One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it's been a good two weeks since I've updated, but this chapter was. a fuckass to write. do I have a solid concept of Lukas's character? no. will I ever?
> 
> at this point, probably not (144 seriously made me contemplate deleting this chapter and skipping over it entirely)

The next few minutes of Jon’s morning lasted longer than he could have anticipated. 

With Lukas not knowing sign language and Jon unsure if he should actually talk, he was stuck replying in one of three physical answers: nodding for yes, shaking his head for no, and shrugging in some combination of the two in order to form whatever fantastic in-between he had. 

Of course, Lukas asked more _complex_ questions (far from any yes or no answer), the first being how much Jon knew about the Asset. 

Jon’s answer to this was a sarcastic shrug—as sarcastic as one could get—and a thought back to his flat where a wall of files was present. 

_ I believe to be rather knowledgeable on the subject, Peter Lukas. Unlike  _ other  _ workers, I actually use my time wisely. _

In this inner-thought response to Lukas's question, Jon chose to ignore the fact that he had spent more time mulling over his burned hand than hanging papers on a board. 

He stood by his statement nonetheless. 

The remaining questions that Lukas asked were easier to answer, most of which were temporary, unrelated subjects derived from small talk that, rather than be awkward and forced, seemed natural. There wasn’t a second of silence, no lull in the conversation as two near-strangers walked a flight down the Institute’s hallways towards the nurses’ stations. There always seemed to be a question and an answer in the conversation, and although Peter kept Jon thinking throughout the entire walk, it didn’t seem any quicker than a painful journey through morning tranquility. 

Quite frankly, he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand hearing Peter’s voice. It wasn’t annoying, per se, Jon actually found it to be rather calming (it told his mind that it was, however it didn’t actually ease any of his nerves). This tone, however, was accompanied by a feeling of seclusion—a cold bitterness that lined the edge of his words but not the tone itself—and it felt like an empty hole had froze its way into Jon’s chest—

—if emptiness could even be considered a full emotion, which is a paradox in of itself. 

“So, I take it you and Tim are close?” Lukas shifted the subject to Jon’s colleague as they made their way down the hall and arrived at the medical supply room—the Institute's equivalent to a school's nurse’s office. “He seems to care a lot about people, more specifically the ones he’s close to—just an expectation of those types of relationships, I guess. Not many people give care so easily, so I praise him for that.”

Jon’s immediate reaction was faulted, a pitched laugh and a snort not too far behind. “He- He’s quite the asshole, but he has a good side.”

Peter was taken aback to hear the patched voice. It resembled the growl of the morning, accompanied with fine sandpaper against the throat. “Oh, so the silence speaks?” Lukas quipped, a short grin crossing his expression. 

“I, uh,” Jon felt regret beginning to climb its way into his head. He knew at some point Peter was going to hear him speak—Jon wouldn’t be able to keep himself from talking. Even if he knew sign, Jon was unsure how likely it would be that he’d stay silent. Sign language was quiet, it was tedious. Talking was so much easier, and even though Jon knew his speech was limited, that wouldn’t stop him from talking to the one person in the Institute who knew as much as he knew about the Asset (Elias’s knowledge on the subject was… questionable).

“I know I’m not... supposed to talk, but it’s not that bad. For long, at least. It just strains a lot, and sort of- well, it- it’s nothing horrible.”

Jon took a breath before clearing his throat, an attempt to reassure Peter accompanied by a dismissive wave of his free hand. “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

Peter nodded—a slow agreement replied with oncoming concern. “If your health is at risk—or, more risk, rather—by talking, I’d encourage against it.” Peter began to find some other words, a thought crossing his mind before he waved it out of question. “I would rather you stick to what others advise you to do—you doctor, for example-”

Jon held himself firm, breaking the urge to snark back with a contemptuous reply claiming it was his decision on whether or not he should talk.

After all, there was no need for him to speak his mind, because Peter had already agreed.

“-but in the end, what you do is your choice, Jonathan. I can only warn you that if your condition worsens, and you are unable to work as well as how you have been, Elias and I will have no other choice but to put you on medical leave.”

Peter opened the door to the office, and Jon walked in, remitting himself back into silence. 

“It’s only for the betterment of our employees, Jonathan. You must understand that we make sure the Institute has the best workers, the most consistent staff—even if that means letting go of those with the most potential.”

“Of- Of course, I understand.” Jon disregarded the thought of being less of a worker than he sought out to be. “I would, um- I would never let my work cloud the state of my condition. I’m aware of my limits, and track my- my speech appropriately. I- er, I know my limits, sir. I’m used to it. My health is nothing short of concerning, but it’s manageable in time.”

Peter closed the door after they had both entered, his response—if he had one at all—went quiet and unnoticed as Jon moved to the other side of the room, near the sink. While Peter searched through the cabinets of the office for swabs and anything a person would need for a semi-fresh, healing burn, Jon stood in front of the counter, his hand shaking as his nerves moved from each hand to his heart, then back again. They ricocheted from one end of his body to the other, faster than a bullet moving from the barrel to its target. 

“Now, if you don’t mind...?”

Peter moved towards Jon, gaining his attention as he set down the other supplies and gestured for Jon to sit down on the exam table. 

“Oh, yeah- er, sure. Of course.” Jon’s words were quick and rough, stumbling over one another as he attempted to form the response. He stepped up the small stool set on the floor to make getting onto the cot-like table easier, even though Jon could have just as easily sat on it without the stool’s help. The fake leather cushion spread across the exam table was cold, Jon being able to feel it through the fabric of his pants. He brushed the wrinkles out as he had sat down, fixing the folds of his top as well. 

Peter was tentative in raising Jon’s hand, holding his forearm as he looked at the bandage. He found the end and started to unwrap the bandage. It was wrapped around his entire palm, circling each finger to make individual movement virtually impossible to avoid any stress on the burn. The ripping of tape that held the bandage together was a relieving sound; as much as Jon wanted the bandage off, however, he knew it would ache more once it hit the cold office air. His nerves seemed to fire up on his palm just thinking about it. 

Jon couldn’t just sit here and think about the pain that was set to come, so he focused on the subject at hand—of course, the hypothetical subject “at hand”.

“Mr. Lukas-”

“Please,” he interrupted, stopping Jon’s question before he could even start. “Call me Peter. No need for formalities, Jonathan.”

“Oh, um- Okay.” Jon shifted, trying his best not to move his hand to avoid ripping the bandage straight off. 

“So, um, Peter, ” Jon nodded, adjusting to the casual address. “The Asset, it’s- it’s here, isn’t it?”

Peter grinned, even though his head was tilted towards Jon’s hand, his facial expressions hardly visible. “Correct—in A22, to be specific.”

Peter went back to unraveling the bandage, but Jon pulled the subject back. “Hold on, I- A22? I thought the archives only went up to- to- A18? Elias never-”

“There are some things even Elias doesn’t know, Jonathan. And as far as the regular staff is concerned, the Institute only has archival units up to A12. Now, Elias may keep a close eye on where every employee travels within the Institute, but, ultimately, it’s my decision as to what each worker knows, and what each worker doesn’t. That includes Elias and you.”

On Jon’s face, a troubled expression pressed his eyebrows together. “How many archives are there in the Institute?” 

“Just up to A22.” Jon was unsure about the number, knowing it could just as easily be a lie as there only being 18 archives was. Although, the nonchalant tone that came through Peter’s statement seemed truthful. 

So, Jon believed him. 

“It’s always been here, Jon,” Peter continued, the grin widening in a short, hint of laughter before resting. “You just haven’t realized.”

_ You just haven’t realized. _

The additional realization struck Jon cold. He was now the bullet’s target. The nerves fired through his chest, the hole bursting forward and striking the center, his gut pulling at the accusation that was nothing short of the truth. 

“I take it you’re not used to not knowing things,” Peter caught, a smirk raising the edge of his mouth.

“Yeah, I- uh- no.” Jon’s voice was hushed, on the edge of being just as quiet and still as the atmosphere around them. “No, I’m not- not really.” He cleared his throat once again, and for a moment, before he looked up, kept his eyes at the floor, anywhere to avoid Peter’s stare. 

Peter had remained silent until Jon finally looked up, his expression only faltering once he spoke. “I figured just as much,” he said, his voice low and satisfied. Lukas sighed, “Elias was right, you really are like Jonah.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed again, his focus snapping back to reality as he heard the name. “Who is-?  _ Ah!” _

Peter pulled back, holding the wrap in his hand. “Oh! I apologize, I didn’t think-”

“You’re fine- it’s fine,” Jon hissed through gritted teeth, grabbing his left wrist with his other hand in an attempt to ease the pain of the bandage being pulled off in the middle of his words. “It had to come off anyways, might as well rip it off.” 

Peter stood there for another moment, before straightening himself and turning away from Jon, tossing the bandage in the bin. Jon heard the rush of water in the sink, sounding as if it were across the hall rather than a meter away from him. 

“I-” Jon stopped, clearing his throat before he shook his head, clearing it of the bitter tone. His voice was softer, more reserved than it was before. “I’m sorry, that came off rather aggressive, I just-”

“It hurt?” Lukas looked back to him with a humoring, forgiving smile. 

Jon huffed, a short breath of laughter that communicated just as much of a response as if he were to give a spoken reply. 

“How does it feel?” Lukas asked, looking down at the hand.

“Numb.” Jon lied and stood up, walking over to the sink. He turned on the tap with his free hand. “Still hurts, but it’s better.” 

His hand was definitely red, and—in a few areas, surrounding the edges of the burn and just barely leaving an uneven outline—there was white. It hadn’t been there earlier when Georgie had first wrapped it, which left a tinge of worry inside of Jon. 

“It seems to be healing,” Lukas supplied, an obvious catch onto the whitened skin. “The bandage was really nice, it helped the healing a little bit, so it wasn’t such a bad idea—worth the pain in the end, I’d say.”

Jon nodded along and muttered a humored agreement, hesitating to inch his hand towards the running water. He made sure it was a decent temperature with his other hand as Lukas spoke once again.

“It seems to be superficial, at the worst it could be a deep partial burn—which is really just the worst end of a second degree.”

“I didn't even think it’d be past first, if I'm being honest,” Jon said, the last phrase seeming to break in his voice. He felt his throat starting to cease, the nerve of pain coming from his hand and general looming pressure of Peter Lukas right next to him seeming to choke his words. 

Jon eased the pressure of the water and lowered his hand under the stream. The cool water rushed onto his burning palm, and he could feel it move under the lifted, dead skin. His hand shook as he turned it in the water; the pain began to subside, but it was far from being comfortable.

“The wrap on the new bandage should prevent it from sticking, such as the last one,” Peter added in the silence, holding out a small cloth to Jon, who took it graciously once he turned the water off, a humming reply escaping his lips. 

In return, Peter sighed and opened the packaging for the bandage. It was a soft material—not much different than the previous bandage, rather just a little more expensive.

“Now, back onto the subject?” he suggested, getting a nod of eager encouragement from Jon in the pause. Once Jon had finished drying the palm, he held it as still as he could with his other hand to prevent any more shaking (which, as he very quickly noticed, only made it worse).

“The Asset is here—in A22, as I mentioned before,” Lukas started as he took Jon’s hand and began wrapping the bandage around the palm.

Jon’s focus was pushed back for a moment, away from the Asset, and instead fixated on the cold feel of Lukas’s hands. It made him want to flinch back, to pull away.

Instead, he remained still.

Lukas circled the bandage loosely around Jon’s hand, making sure it wasn’t too tight to cause swelling. “Its unit is… questionable, in time. I trust that Elias has considered the safety of the unit by admitting it through different tests, but I never know with him. On the carrier facility, as it was being transported, it broke out.”

Jon looked up to Lukas, away from his hand. 

It  _ broke out?  _

Of course, Jon had read the details: two carrier units had been destroyed on board, one of which had little to no interior damage outside of missing screws. 

Jon was aware of its connection to the Homo genus, with humans, but the tests over its cognitive thought were going to be held in the Institute. 

Already, this creature was showing signs of intelligence, signs of independent emotion. 

Signs of stress, signs of _ fear. _

“I’m glad the two of you are on the case,” Lukas shifted the focus, once again bringing Jon out of his thoughts and back to the present. 

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was getting rather annoying.

“Out of all of our staff, I couldn’t find a better team than the two of you. The Technologist and the Archivist—you two must be overloaded with statements, but you’re productive, I’ve heard?”

Jon nodded, a hint of dismissive mood crossing his expression as his thoughts towards the Asset’s cognitive skills and abilities were shot away, reserved to the back of his mind where he’d have no choice but to pull his focus away from it. 

“That’s good,” Peter continued after Jon’s reply in silence. His tone was less at ease than Jon had perceived earlier, but rather than be concerned at the sudden shift in mood, Jon passed it off as a misunderstanding, a worry that he refused to give thought to. 

“I’m glad Elias can trust the two of you with such amounts of work. He’s had high hopes for you two—especially you, Jonathan.”

Now this caught Jon’s attention. 

“Him and I are trusting you to work on this case near-singlehandedly because of your outstanding performances in the past. Your progress from my perspective is one I could never achieve by myself.”

Jon was silent, unsure if it was the tightness in his throat or his reaction being nothing short of speechless at the comments. Lukas wrapped the bandage around Jon’s fingers separately (to allow for movement, of course).

“You will be working with the Asset more than any of us—we need it to trust someone.”

Lukas cut the bandage, and got the tape ready to set it to the rest of the wrap.

“This creature is very important, Jonathan. You will understand in time, but you can trust my motives for putting you in this position. Of course, there are plenty of papers to sign, securing your safety and solidifying the logistical concerns on the matter, but if you are prepared to-”

“Yes.”

The room stilled at the agreement, both of their breaths stalling at the opportunity that had just opened up in front of them. 

Lukas finished wrapping the tape on the bandage, and he nodded. Jon pulled his hand back slowly, giving it one look before turning back to Lukas. 

“I’ll do it. The- the Asset, I just need to see it. I’ll do the tests, I’ll judge its cognition—I… I can do it.” 

He took another shaky breath, his voice easing into the affirmation of the assignment. “You can trust me with this task, Peter Lukas, I assure you.”

Peter’s expression remained stone, a thoughtful hush of silence filling the air as a remorseful look appeared on the executive’s face; then, as if the emotion left behind in the silence never weighed on Jon’s decisions, Lukas’s face lit up, and he extended his hand.

“It’s my pleasure to welcome you—to truly welcome you—to the case.”

Jon took his hand, shaking it firmly and feeling a rush of adrenaline spike in his veins. Compared to their first meeting in Elias’s office, shaking Lukas’s hand was much easier this time around. 

“If it’s all the same, Mr. Lukas,” Jon spoke with his tone firm, more ordering than suggesting the situation in question. “I’d like to see the Asset now.” 

Lukas smiled, a wide, cracked smile that seemed to light up both of his eyes—the milky appearance of his right eye seeming to stare into Jon, rather than through.

“Peter, Jonathan. Just call me Peter.”

Jon nodded eagerly, forgetting himself in the moment. His right hand burned, despite his left hand being the one that had touched the hot copper handle of the kettle.

Peter smiled, an officious and gleeful promise for Jon to finally meet the Asset. “Let’s get started, shall we?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here, we see the 100th time I've used the "ready to see the asset?" cliffhanger
> 
> I swear to you, you'll get him in a few days (if I can keep a steady updating schedule, that is)
> 
> I also had more terribly written metaphors in here that can hardly be described as metaphors but they're there and I apologize for them because they Don't Make Sense but that's what happens when you give an artist a keyboard and tell him to write a fic


	10. The Telltale Sign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm. not much to say except "have fun!" and the title makes. zero sense :)

Jon sat across from Tim in the dining hall of the Institute, coffees placed in front of them like offers they were hesitant to accept. 

Jon’s knee bounced restlessly under the table, a movement present enough to cause that side of his body to move with it. The opposing hand was crossed over his mouth, pressing into the outline of his cheekbone. His bandaged hand fiddled with a napkin he had begun to tear at the edges; it was a sign of his nervous stims getting the better of him—an effect he wasn’t at all surprised by his exhausted, sleep-deprived mind.

He welcomed the repetitive movement, hoping it would ease his nerves, calm his heart to lower it’s rapid pace. 

Even after half an hour, the adrenaline coursed through his veins and kept him wide awake. Despite not having slept, despite his body telling him to rest, he couldn’t.

It wasn’t an option, not now.

Tim made the first attempt at the coffee. He pushed the tab of the lid up to allow the steam to billow out, but instead decided to simply just remove the entire lid. His face flushed from the heat crossing the atmosphere around him as he took a small drink. It was a reserved action that he separated himself from immediately after, placing the cup back on the table to cross his arms and lean forward on the table. 

He looked at Jon, his eyes narrowed and subjective. With Jon’s neurotic state, Tim might as well be staring down a man who had just done an immoral act—or, rather, was about to commit one. Jon was facing away from Tim, a detail Tim couldn’t help but label as an attempt to ignore conversation.

Like hell Jon was going to get away from this talk.

‘Jonathan fucking Sims,” he started, his voice low and toned with sedated frustration, covered with a laugh that remained just as low and edged. “The Asset—what’s it like?”

Jon darted his eyes towards Tim, taking a deep breath. 

He fixed his posture, sitting up in his chair and shifting a little to make sure he was still capable of movement, unsure if the adrenaline spiking his energy would lock him down anytime soon. He folded his hands in front of him, taking another few seconds before reaching for his coffee, wanting to get rid of it in one go.

He only managed to drink a third of it before the bitter taste he used to manage turned his stomach over.

“Well?” Tim pushed, opening his hands as if to call for the expectant answer.

Jon was unmoving, unfazed by the brink of Tim’s wearing patience, until he finally cracked under the facade. He moved his hand back up to his mouth, covering the feverish grin that pulled at the edges of his mouth. Even behind the cover of his bandaged palm, it peeked around the outside and seemed more natural than a smile from Jon should be. 

“It was… fascinating.”

\---

Archive 22, much like its 21 preceding areas, was made for the storage of items. 

Archive 22, however, was not made for the storage of books. It was not intended to store files, or tapes. It was not intended to be another working space for the MAGNUS Institute’s agents, nor was it meant to even be touched by any MAGNUS agents. 

The sole purpose of Archive 22 was to inhabit a single creature and, subsequently, seal the door to prevent any agent, authority, or creatures similar to the one confined from entering.

Although, despite its purpose being fulfilled, the authorities in the MAGNUS Institute found it useless to lock away the creature; they realized there was no documented or reported duplicates or related species found near England (or anywhere in the world, for that matter).

As unlikely as it seemed, the chances of the Asset’s value raising simply because of its uniqueness piqued the MAGNUS Institute’s interest.

For the Institute, it was another project to further their understanding of different species—species supposedly capable of cognition. 

For England, it was a chance to increase bonds with Brazil—a crucial ally in the declination of the war. 

Every party involved had a point of interest, a positive gain. Each end of the exchange agreement was hesitant to agree, hesitant to trust the values and motives the opposing side had, but in the end none of it mattered. The true effect of the war was left with the bigger countries—those involved directly with the Cold War. 

Brazil and England both agreed that as long as the States weren’t in possession of the Asset, their agreement wouldn’t come to any rough conflict. 

The war was tedious. It kept nearly every world government attentive—watching the two biggest countries in the war have a nuclear staring contest. It was a tense period of time, and no one was expecting it to ease up anytime soon.

As long as they could keep either country from obtaining extra power, anything to inch towards superiority, the rest of the world was content-

“-I suppose that excludes whatever is left of the German Nazis, who may not be as jazzed about the outcome of the Second War,” Peter Lukas finished, his voice lined with a sharp tone. Jon was unsure as to whether he should react to the pull at a joke, or the fact that Peter Lukas, the Chief Executive of the MAGNUS Institute, just used ‘jazzed’ to describe the Nazis.

He was Jon’s first chance to finally see the Asset, so he supposed he couldn’t complain all that much.

“Just through here, Jonathan.”

Jon looked to Peter, who had stopped in front of a steel double door. His heart jumped once again, having tossed away all efforts to calm it down over their journey to A22. 

Peter pushed open the doors, the atmosphere around them closing just as the doors closed themselves. The air tightened and pushed a sense of feathery lightness into Jon’s mind. It had no effect on his movement, as he continued forward behind Lukas, however it did clear his mind of what he had been trying to focus on—a question he had for Lukas since their first conversation.

“Currently, the only person authorized to enter A22 is myself—it requires a code and my badge for authorization. I will provide you with a timed badge and the code once Elias’s assistant processes them. In time, you will be able to enter this room every other day—once a day, as assigned by Elias.”

The keypad clicked, and Jon hadn’t watched for the code. Instead, he had been paying attention to the thin, dark trail that lined the outside of the industrial-steel door in front of them—a door that resembled one of a garage, but rather than protect its contents instead protected those outside from that which was within. Jon eyes then switched their gaze to the half-washed, almost equally dark stained boot trail that led just outside of A22 before fading a couple meters out. 

Peter noticed Jon’s focus and sighed to himself, a remorseful sound that was inconvenienced by the stains on the floor. 

“I was really hoping they had cleaned it up.”

Jon’s breath wired, and he looked away from the trails and back up to Lukas. “What- uh, what exactly-?”

The door roared to life, and it raised above their heads quicker than Jon could finish his question. It was hardly worth the breath anyway, as he already knew what the liquid inching its way out of the still-wet floor of A22 was. 

“Transporting the Asset wasn’t as… simple as we were thinking, unfortunately.” His breath caught in the middle of his statement, and Jon could feel the disappointment in Peter’s voice. It was inconvenienced more than anything, leaving Jon to believe he found the situation rather disposable and forgettable beyond the hint of adversity that he could—and, inevitably, would—brush off his shoulder. 

Jon would remind himself to read the fine print of the insurance and safety contract he was to sign.

Pulling himself away from Lukas’s voice as he went on another lecture of safety, Jon looked around A22, observing all of its contents and structure. He could practically hear Tim behind him gloating about how ‘spooky’ it was—Jon was confident Tim would use that term at least once to describe the unit. It did, unfortunately, scream ‘secret underground facility’. 

Jon had his moments where he was rather ignorant of government conspiracies, but even he could feel the obvious tension hidden within the room. 

The room itself resembled the layout of the main Archive as it seemed to cover the same area. The floor was concrete, as were the walls, the ceiling, and the steps that led up to what Jon could observe as a pool of liquid—the scent of salt admonishing his desire to step closer. He couldn’t see through the dark, dense liquid, let alone see the entire stretch of the pool as the steps nearly went up to his height.

Pressure tanks and filters surrounded the area, held to the wall by metal plates. There was a large filter behind the pool in front of Jon, water smoothing out of it at a steady pace, the occasional wave forming below. Pipes extended from every angle along the outside of the filter, lining the walls and moving upwards to the ceiling, before bending left towards another large structure. It was another tank, this one fully pressurized and contained. The water wasn’t nearly as dark, in fact it seemed the complete opposite of the open pool. It was green in its shadows, and blue in the light. There was a small window on the side of the tank, an ovular shape that was held by heavy bolts planted into the metal, sticking out of the even surface. Pipes and meters ran down the side next to the glass, measuring what Jon assumed to be the pressure. 

The structure formed a basin towards its front, a cone funneling water into another tank, another unit—one that had a large, open window of glass. This, Jon noticed, is where all of the metal pipes ended. They stacked on top of the cylindrical tank, and Jon had little doubt on the safety of the unit. It was firmly shut by more bolts than he could count, metal plates and steel bases fixed to the tank. More dials and meters were placed on this side of the tank, next to the glass. Jon could see a circuit panel raised from the ground on a stand, near the glass of the tank. 

The details of the unit itself were far from being understood by Jon—he was never one for architecture—but even then, he was nothing short of astonished by the sight. 

However, Jon had only focused on the Asset’s direct half of A22, not even thinking to spare a glance at the wall of circuits and monitors surrounding the entrance and adjacent walls. 

He stepped towards the front of the tank, standing just over an arm’s length away from the glass. He heard Peter’s talking cease, though was unsure if it was because he was finished talking, or because he had seen Jon’s actions moving towards the unit. 

A glow seemed to shine through the glass, and Jon passed it off as an effect from the light—though the bulbs in the archives weren’t nearly as bright as the flare of water. It highlighted his face, in turn darkening the rest of Archive 22 around him.

Its light shone like a tamed sun, orbiting around the tank as if it has yet to be caught; it was the light of an angler fish, reeling him in with its untouched radiance; it was the light across the street, peeking through the fog and into Jon’s bitter flat.

It was real, and it wept through the bolted glass case and begged for Jon to move closer. 

“It’s magnificent,” Jon’s voice echoed throughout the archive, accentuated by the acoustic ring as it bounced off the concrete walls. Despite his volume being low—just above a whisper—it hit every wall of the archive and Peter could hear it perfectly.

“I suppose it is,” he replied, walking up next to Jon and near the panel to his right. The rings that reverberated from the metal casing on the end of Peter’s cane shot through the air as he grew closer, until he finally positioned it in front of him to lean on. “The light—the glow—that you’re admiring right now is the Asset’s bioluminescence. Its form of communication, we concluded.” 

Peter looked to Jon, who kept his gaze focused ahead of him and inside the unit, adamant on getting a full glance at the creature. The unit was spacious, and although the water was clearer than the murky sea of salt across from them, the glass was clouded from the evaporated water that had washed away the unwarranted result of the Asset’s transport. 

Beyond the condensation and the warped effect the heavy glass had on the creature inside, the visibility through the water would be enough to make out rough details.

At this point, anything was enough for Jon. 

He was so close, so damn close to it. 

All he had to do-

_ Beep beep. _

Jon stiffened, his hand freezing in the reaching position it had taken. He hadn’t noticed himself moving his hand, nor did he notice the dark figure near the back of the tank until it disappeared as quickly as he caught it. 

He shook his head out of the captivating glow and reached for his beeper, but it wasn’t his that went off. 

Lukas straightened his composure before looking at Jon, moving his cane back to his side with a metal click. “Oh, I must apologize, Jonathan—I completely lost track of the time. I have a meeting to arrange soon and should be on my way. I’m not one to be late, I’m sure you understand.” The end of his sentence came out with a low growl, one that seemed to be a laugh (though Jon wasn’t sure which one it was). 

“Y- uh, yeah, of course,” he replied, unsure of what else to say. 

_ Beep beep. _

“You can stay in here, if you’d like? The Asset is well-contained, you shouldn’t have any worries—for now at least,” Peter added, a reassuring tone weaving into his voice. 

Jon nodded his head, nonchalant and unfazed in expression. “Of course, I’ll- I’ll be fine. I should get back to Tim soon, anyways- er,” he turned away from the tank, facing Lukas as he reached for his beeper unconsciously. “I’ll only be in for- for a minute or so more.” He cleared his throat as he finished, a scratchy quality starting to itch at the end of his words. 

Peter nodded for a second—a second too long for Jon—before nodding once more assuringly. “I’ll leave you to it, then!” He answered with a short, pressed smile that pulled at the edge of his lip and prised the spot of scar on the outskirts of his mouth as he departed from the archive. “If there’s anything else you’d like to know, just call Elias and he should be able to transfer you to me. Though, I’m sure any questions you have, he would be able to answer just as well.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. It’s Elias we’re talking about, after all,” Jon retorted. 

Peter’s laugh echoed in the concrete room, growing fainter as he moved away from Jon—a movement Jon would describe as careened, if only it weren’t for the purpose of describing ships. Jon had expected another reply, some finishing word to avoid an awkward note, but instead the air was filled with the roar of the lifting door and the echoing ring of Peter’s cane. 

He breathed a short sigh of relief as the door sealed shut, his mind clouding at the alleviated pressure off his shoulders. Being around Peter was tense—more so mentally than physically—and it exhausted Jon more than he already was. He took his glasses off to rub his eyes with the heel of his hand, looking away from A22’s door. 

With narrowed eyes, his gaze followed the pipes above him on the ceiling, noting how the smaller ones branched off towards the monitors while the larger ones kept forward towards the tank. Trailing the smaller pipes, he walked to the monitors and peered at the screens, attempting to discern what was on them. 

The cameras had a black and white tint to them, the color’s saturation low to where he could hardly make out the true colors—it was only after staring for a bit longer that he realized the color was a clouded blue. Bolts were blurred in the background (an effect Jon wasn’t sure was due to his glasses or the state of the water), and it was then Jon realized that the monitors in front of him were broadcasting different views of the tank.

In none of them, however, were the Asset. 

Jon backed away from the monitors, side stepping towards the front of the tank. His focus stayed on the monitors for a few more moments before he fixed his gaze upwards at the tank, where his eyes met with the unexpected, waiting stare of the Asset. 

In that moment—in the split second that Jon was able to look at the figure before he went crashing to the floor in an astonished fall—he was able to recognize nearly each and every written detail documented in the files. 

Its webbed and lined palms pressed against the thick layer of glass, bioluminescence coursing through the paths engraved into its skin; its iridescent scales lining the back of its arms and legs, growing in large patches on its back—Jon could see them drawn in the Vitruvian man, the photo flashing through his mind. He had spent an hour looking at the sketches up and down, observing every detail, every purpose the Asset was made to have. 

The large, edged dorsal fin that was lined with blue streaks, fading on and off as its glow faltered in the light. The thin, pressed caudal fins that were fit on the lengths of its arms and legs, sharp points articulating each curve. The most prominent fins were those placed around the neck, accentuating the appearance of the Asset, pointing upwards and flaring out when the creature would feel threatened. The gills were placed within these fins, highlighted by their own reflective, iridescent scales. 

Then, the front of the Asset: where the scales faded and revealed a chest plated with layered sections, smooth scars climbed from his chest to his ribs. 

As Jon found himself pulling against the metal stand of the circuit panel—his breathing heavy and nearing the start of a coughing fit—the bright, bioluminescent light of the Asset reflected and glared against Jon’s glasses. Jon pushed himself up, hitting his head against the bottom of the panel and cursed at the pain, a sharp stab at his skull that would go away seconds later. 

As he regained his composure he began to walk, once again, towards the tank.

At the movement, the creature seemed startled and appeared to retreat to the other side of the tank, to which Jon immediately ceased his steps and held out his hands, as if to say _ Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. _

To which Jon thought back to himself,  _ I wasn’t planning on testing the Asset’s perception of silent communication now, but here we are. _

Jon stood in this position—arms bent, raised just above his chest—for a terrifying amount of time, wanting, needing, the Asset to reapproach the glass. The time in which this took was long enough for his breath to ease, and the scratching urge to cough in the back of his throat to subside. Then, after the risk of a near asthma attack faded away, he cleared his throat of the remaining fire and took another breath before-

Before what?

The Asset was enclosed in heavy layers of steel, glass, and surrounded by water—all of which filtered away the sound outside of the tank. There was no opening to funnel sound, no hatch to open—easily, that is—to allow for communication. 

Was Jon seriously thinking about talking to the damn thing?

Then, just as his facetious thoughts ensued, an idea—an obvious, doltish idea—eased his frustration and addled expression. 

“I… I can’t- talk to you, but- uh...” Jon’s words were edged with light, nervous laughter as he moved a step closer—a slow, shaking movement itself as his feet threatened to slip underneath of him. “But I can try something else.” 

He lowered his arms, crossing his left over his chest before signing a word with the opposite arm—signing a name—

“Jon.”

-and if he had watched the creature’s expression aptly, if he had looked just a little bit closer, Jon would have seen a bewildered gleam in the Asset’s eyes and a low, shifting glow within its bioluminescence, as it watched each gesture and letter carefully as Jon repeated it once more. 

_ Jon. _


	11. The Redacted Event

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter is 100% proof of why I shouldn't be given an italics option  
> anyways! due to the fact that I Cannot focus on One Single Thing, I am now working on an animatic... so that's why this chapter took a bit to get out (and why it maaay not be the best!) so just bear with me people, yikes (on another note, I have 0 concept of pacing in writing so if it just suddenly boosts forward in the next couple of chapters, I apologize!)
> 
> now, enjoy the chapter! comments are appreciated! `v`

**FILE EXCERPT [WITHHELD PAGE 1, 9-18, 24] #74**

_ [The Following Information Shall Be Fully Redacted and Disposed for Critical Accusations of the Subject Under TRADE #63HP] _

        When reviewing the incidents that were revealed to have occurred on the Seventeenth of July Nineteen Oh-Six, the agents directly involved in the investigation of Subject HP-A and its connection to said incident were found to have questionable mental states. 

        Soon after contact with Subject HP-A, the agents affected gave mention of “a sudden burst[s] of adrenaline” and revealed the “voices inside [their] mind[s]”. 

        Various psychiatrists were assigned to each agent after the severity of their illusionary state was realized, however it was later discovered that they suffered no physical trauma (i.e. “no indication of head injury, nor was there any indication of any mental injury”).

        When investigators compared those affected directly by Subject HP-A to those non-affected, they observed the obvious differences in each group’s mental stability. Those contacted by Subject HP-A were found to be more anxious and feverish over one week of observational treatment. Those left without contact, however, behaved as per usual, with little to no interruption of harsh outbreaks. 

—[BREAK]—

        After further mental evaluation, each subject was taken to intensive units to be observed longer. This procedure is vital in discovering their experiences when having interacted hand-in-hand with Subject HP-A.  **—[REDACTED]—** . See _CONTENTS_ to find other information regarding the case, and access the recorded files of each subject’s experience in  **—[REDACTED]—** , currently under the supervision of the  **—[REDACTED]—** Institute, Sub-Archive Eighty-One Twenty-Two, Vault  **—[REDACTED]—** . 

\---

Even through the thick, distorting glass that surrounded the front of the tank, the Asset was able to focus on the appearance of the man standing just beyond the barrier. On any other occasion, he would have retreated to the opposite end of the tank, away from the light of the room and the figure it cast upon. 

With this one, however, it was different. 

He couldn’t tell if it was a physical difference in the man, as his demeanor seemed much, much lower than that of the Man of Light, Lukas. It was all the Asset knew about the officious man, just able to hear the word clear enough to catch as the Woman of Green mentioned it. The Woman of Green was from the same land as the Asset, a place with a lot of green, naturally. Thus, the Asset named her the Woman of Green.

He liked her, she seemed nicer than the Man of Light. 

As for the man in front of him right now, he wasn’t sure what to call him. The gestures that he made, the movements he created in front of the Asset, were different from anything he had seen while on his old land. He knew that humans used movements to exaggerate their spoken language, but this was different. He didn’t say any words, just repeated the same motions, starting and ending with the same gestures. 

A hook, a point, and fingers on a hand; a sweeping motion, an articulate signal, and two resting fingers on the palm of his hand. Three persistent signs, recurrent within the Asset’s mind.  

It was then that he realized those motions, those gestures, were his words. 

In the water, relieving his shoulders of the tense environment around him, the Asset began to repeat the gestures for himself. Having studied each movement, unsure of whether the shaking was part of them or from the man himself, the Asset swept his hands together to mirror the signs. 

After the Asset completed the first sign, unsure of its meaning, the Gesturing Man was appalled. His expression became stunned, frozen in time as he ceased his movements. A mix of fear and fascination echoed into the Asset, as he sensed the uneven tension settling in the environment around him. 

The man inched closer to the glass as the Asset lowered himself to his height, nearly against the glass himself. He placed his hand on the barrier, his palm smoothing over the material for a second before he repositioned it to be flat. He felt his skin cool at the touch, the natural sensation of his bioluminescence lighting the water once again, and he could see it reflect off the man’s eyes, streaks glaring back at him.

Whatever facade the man had masked himself with was gone, stripped away as the Asset appeared at his level.

Earlier, the Asset had been scared, he had been afraid of the Man of Light. Now that he was gone, the Asset was left with this much smaller, more gentle man. He seemed inferior to the others, in a way that presented him as less forceful, unable to overpower the Asset and instead simply accept the possibility of their solidarity. The Gesturing Man was frightful and nervous, his motions proving just as much through periodic tremors that forced memories of cracked sea floors and ravines forming on land into the Asset’s thoughts.

Another hand pressed up against the glass, illuminated by the soft flush of the Asset, and it stayed there. No matter his instincts—and the Asset knew damn well what instincts humans had—the Gesturing Man would try to communicate, to understand, to know.

The Asset felt a rush of new emotions and unexpected sensations shock their way up his arms in strips of bioluminescence, shooting through his neck and making their way into his mind where they ran against the walls of his skull. The Gesturing Man would experience a similar, if not the exact same, sensation as they watched each other through the glass. Static danced across the glass and against each palm, the man’s eyes lighting up in wonder.

Through the shock, neither of them pulled away.

The Gesturing Man hadn’t read or heard (let alone seen) anything like what he was experiencing. He was unsure of his thoughts on the matter, on how they were both enduring the same shock through the inches of glass separating them. He tried to pull his hand away from the surface, forcing his mind to believe that the shocks he was experiencing were from natural science, electrical forces building up on the surface of the glass and he was simply activating them.

He knew he was wrong, yet he wasn’t sure what else to believe. 

Still, they remained there in silence; each respective figure sorted through the thoughts in their independent thoughts, attempting to discern the real from the fake, the realistic to the imagined; each figure looked to the other, the blur of the water and the glare of glass meeting light beginning to interfere with the moment, but they understood each other nonetheless.

They were _communicating_.

\---

“I’m sorry, you actually talked to it?” 

Jon pushed away from the table, shaking his head to excuse himself from the question. He had told Tim about the Asset, what it was truly like, and the fact that he had “tried” to talk to it—he felt it was better that he didn’t mention the more… supernatural events that had occurred—so he wasn’t particularly surprised by the question, or Tim’s outburst of a reaction for that matter. Jon could hardly believe it himself. 

“I already told you what I did. I’m not going to repeat myself,” Jon signed, before throwing away what was left of his coffee. It had been bitter and jolting, but it was something he needed at the moment. The taste wore off after the first several drinks—a mind-over-matter habit he had acquired after forcing down several pots of watered down, unworthy tea over the years. 

As for refusing to repeat his experience with the Asset—simply because he “didn’t want to”—that was a lie. Jon had played the interaction in his mind over and over again ever since he left A22, his mind hooking onto the interaction as if it had nothing better to think about (which, now that Jon thought about it, was probably the case). If he had the ability, he’d go back before the shift was over, just to see it again-

-to get a head start on the tests, of course. To allow for a deeper understanding of its abilities, its way of life.

Unfortunately, until he was given the access, his chances of seeing the Asset were slim to none. Even then, his access was limited—only able to hold his observations every other day. He had tried to think of possible workarounds, ways to access the unit without using his badge, but that near impossible. 

“I know damn well what you said, Sims. But for Christ’s sake, it’s a creature! It isn’t even human!” Tim followed Jon out of the service area, holding his coffee in one hand to finish it off, instead of throwing it away as Jon did.

Along with various other dynamics, the two of them—Jon and Tim—seemed to piece together a Would You Rather? puzzle. Tim chose coffee, and Jon preferred tea; Jon favored cats while Tim housed mutts (and certain rodents); Jon was left-handed, Tim was right-handed.

And finally—lest Jon forget Tim’s personal favorite—Tim had two partners, while Jon had, well, he had his statements. 

_ Ouch. _

“I know it isn’t human, Tim, but it’s just so… so brilliant, the biology of the Asset—still in the same genus as we are, you know. It’s not like he’s a monster.”

“Jon, hold on, Christ- he? ” 

The air froze. Jon felt like he’d just been struck in the chest with a pipe, his air threatening to leave him. He shook his head, discursive of the slip. “Translation error, Tim. I was comparing him to man in general, don’t get too stuck in the details.”

A throaty laugh built in Tim, forcing it back with a sip of his coffee. “Oh, bull shit —you’re sympathizing with the damn thing. You don't even know if it understands you and already you've established a- what- a friendship? ”

Jon’s laugh was a single note, a high retort to Tim’s claim. The word didn’t so much as make Jon recoil, but rather wonder. He wasn’t friends with the Asset, that wasn’t something he could—or even should —do, lest he even think about. 

“Now that’s a little far,” Jon signed, sharp and quick movements to move the subject away from him. “The Asset is just my subject for work. I'll take my observations, record them as assigned, and that's it. You’re the extrovert here, I'm surprised you haven't tried talking to it yet.”

Tim tilted back in laughter, muffling the snort as he took one last drink of his coffee, leaving the cup was empty. “As if Elias would let me. He hardly trusts me as is.” Tim tossed the empty coffee in a bin as they walked past, taking a moment before continuing. “What the hell in that mind of yours makes you think that I’d talk to the damn thing?”

“Because,” Jon paused, unsure of what to use for reasoning. “The Asset isn’t what you think, Tim. It’s different— completely different, in fact—than what you think.” 

Tim scoffed, obvious annoyance and bitter opinion clouding his judgement on the Asset. “Again, even if… even if I did ‘want’ to see the damned thing, I wouldn’t be able to without some goddamn alarm stuck up my ass.” 

Jon ignored the remark, his motions tensing along with the atmosphere around them. Mentioning the Asset’s potential in being passive (despite the somewhat obvious body count that, judging by the stains of the floor of A22, may have increased) was a subject that was impossible to go through without some tension. 

“The only reason Elias trusts me more than you is because I actually do my work, rather than skip around opportunities because of simple, blinded prejudice.”

Tim blew out a sharp, long exhale that put an edge on his words. “Jon you and I know damn well I’m just using common sense here. I mean- you seriously, Christ- you seriously don’t understand what I’m trying to say, Jon? How I’ve just been trying to—oh, I don’t know—keep you from-”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Tim, but it’s ridiculous! This is work, it’s what we have to do, even if it has a chance in ending badly- it doesn’t matter. It’s a risk I have to take, and one you should be taking as well.”

Tim ducked away from Jon, moving back down the hallway to continue to the offices. Jon’s eyes narrowed and he followed behind, making his way beside Tim before continuing. 

“You’ve made risks before, Tim. You’ve-” Jon stopped his signs, noticing Tim hadn’t looked to him. Jon made a few gestures to gain Tim’s attention, signing his name a few times before realizing Tim wasn’t going to pay attention to whatever gestures he’d make. 

Fine.

Jon took a breath or two before opening his mouth to start. “Tim, you’ve done- plenty of things that could have ended worse, much much worse, than simply meeting the Asset—who is very well contained, by the way.” The speaking was enough to catch Tim’s attention, and it was only after a few words that Jon’s voice began to worsen. The words grind against the back of his throat, leaving their own grit and edge on his statements. This is what caught Tim’s attention. 

“Just think about it, Tim. You’ve been exposed to disease, nearly contaminated by-”

“Jon.”

“I know you don’t like the subject, and don’t exactly want to talk about it, but-”

“Jon.”

“No, you need to just-” 

“Jon! ” Tim hissed, not quite yelling the name but ending with a tone hard enough to plant itself in the back of Jon’s throat. He stopped in his tracks and held his position firm as Jon tried to move ahead. “You, just…” 

Tim suppressed the annoyance and frustration building in his throat, taking a moment to process the full reply. Meanwhile, Jon took a shaky breath, holding back a cough that was pushing itself up his throat. 

“Just- stop _talking,_ okay?” Tim pushed. “For your physical health and my mental health.”

Jon watched him move ahead, regaining his place through the hallway. 

After catching back up, the two were left in a shoulder-to-shoulder silence that Jon was unsure of how to fix. Tim was better off in the silence, but he knew sooner or later Jon would start signing another topic of conversation. 

And, sure enough, he did. 

“So, Elias- the meeting he had with you,” Jon added, shifting the subject. “What did he talk about, when Lukas and I left?”

Tim tried to relax his figure, pretending to be relieved that the subject had moved on, yet still he remained tense for the time being. “Just- it was just tech bullshit. Saying how I need to do my job better, work harder. It wasn’t anything new, given I get that talk every month.”

After he saw Jon’s doubtful look, he continued with a given sigh. “It’s really nothing to worry about. It was probably just a way for Lukas to drag you off to your doom.”

Jon was used to his own folly, whereas Tim’s was sneaking and easy to overlook. This one, however—whatever lie he was attempting to hide behind, whatever mask he was wearing to avoid the real answer—was amateur even for Jon’s standards. 

He decided that their day had already met its strained climax, so he let the subject go until they arrived at their respective offices. They had walked in silence for the rest of the way there, a simple break as they left each other’s company. 

Until Jon remembered that there was one question he had left; there was one thing Jon wanted to talk about, an inquiry that had lingered on his mind overnight.

The tape.

“Last night,” Jon signed one more, making sure Tim was paying attention before continuing. “I was looking over that report- Report 194? I read over what I could hear on the tape before it would stop, listening to what was available, but I would really like the full tape—for archive reasons, of course.”

“Right, yes, the statement. You want me to...?” Tim trailed off, assuming Jon understood where he was leading the question (and, surprisingly, Jon did).

“Could you fix it for me? Or- well, at least see if you can figure out what happened?”

Tim took in a weighted breath, stuck between the line of genuity and irony. “An easy task, I suppose. I’ll see if I have the time to.” He dramatically gazed down at his watch, taping the side a couple of times to mimic the ticks. 

I wonder why. Jon’s reaction began with a modest scoff, irritated by the sarcasm yet relieved that it had appeared, given their fretful conversation earlier. “Right, because you’re so busy.”

Tim spun on his heel, so instead of walking by Jon for the rest of the way, he trotted backwards. “Of course, what else would I be doing?” He ended on with a note of a generous smile, a brazen grin that was half a joke away from being classified as what Tim would refer to as “shit-eating”. 

Definitely not his top vocabulary work.

Yet, it seemed so fitting for Tim, despite it being an immature and rather imprudent phrase. So, in the end, Jon wasn’t sure how upset he could really be about it. 

No matter how naive the phrase was, he was forced to admit: it was still a little entertaining. 


	12. A Tainted Process

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so no one asked for angst on a background character but i wrote it anyway
> 
> enjoy :)))
> 
> (i also apologize that it jumps around a lot, and that it's a little ooc, and that i haven't updated,, and for a lot of others things jjfjfj just enjoy the chapter!!)

Djimon Selassie.

Djimon Selassie had moved from country to country nearly his entire life, escaping the heights of various wars that plagued every country. Just before he was born, his family fled from the war in Ethiopia as the late 1930s had pushed the Italian’s forces to cross the border. The possibility of getting stuck in the crossfire was a risk his family narrowly avoided. 

Even leaving, however, presented more problems for them to inevitably face. 

It followed Djimon’s family no matter how far they would move, no matter how much they tried to forget. With other refugees entering from torn countries, the discrimination and separatists further barricaded their opportunities for a better life and made another war. 

Another war that wasn’t made with a written treaty at the end. 

Another war that wasn't made to have it’s end. 

Another war that wasn't the rebuttal of another country’s mistake, another country’s massacre, or another country's actions. 

It, however, was a war that would follow Djimon and his family, and every family that shared his color. It was a war that had killed more than any other war leading up to World War II.

Dijmon would later change his name to “Jack”, shifting his traditional name to his middle name where it wouldn't show nearly as much on public applications.

The decision to do so tore at his soul, a jagged knife ripping its way through his morals and judging every choice he was forced to make. 

Djimon wanted to go with his family back to Ethiopia. 

But _Jack_ needed to stay. Not for work—or for freedom—but for reasons that he wouldn't even think about explaining to his family. 

-

It wasn't until a few hours had passed that Jon and Tim were called to meet with Sasha James, the agent they would be working with for the next however many months it would take to complete the Asset’s case. 

Tim was a little less eager to return than Jon, his space interrupted by a knock at the door and the sleep-deprived, haggard looking Archivist entering his office. 

Tim held up a tenacious finger, his ear pressed to the receiver that connected to its desk base with a spiraling cord. He sat back in his chair, his legs propped up against the desk as he leaned back in his chair

“I- yes, of _course_ I think it’s unreasonable, but with people-... Just- Jack… ” Tim’s hand fell back to the desk, and he sat up in his chair. Jon could tell the conversation was over a sore subject, and he felt worse just by walking into the office and closing the door, leaning against the hardwood behind him. 

“Jack, babe,” his voice took a calmer tone, and he turned away from Jon before continuing. Jon couldn't hear what Tim was saying, something he took to be for the better. He didn't want to eavesdrop on what seemed like a serious conversation, but it was difficult to ignore, especially since Tim was the only other voice in the room. 

There was a relieved sigh, and a moment of sustained silence one both ends of the line before Tim spoke up again. 

“Thank you. Tonight, once…” The pause comes again, and Jon could make out the faint echo of a second voice on the other line. 

“Of course,” Tim hushed, his voice seeming smaller than it was before. It was a side of him that Jon hardly saw—the softer, less humored side of Tim—and Jon wasn't sure if he enjoyed seeing him this way, especially when in this context. 

“Yes, he’s here.”

Jon’s gaze shot back up at the subtle mention of his presence. Tim had turned in his chair, not only to face towards Jon but to look at him as well. His expression was the complete opposite of what his tone was, the usual snark planting itself at the edge of his smile. 

He moved the receiver from his ear to the crook of his neck, turning his focus to Jon. “By the way, Jack says hello!”

Jon raised his hand to wave, a useless gesture to Jack, as he obviously wouldn’t be able to see it, but the message got across to Tim. He wasn't sure how Jack knew he was present, but he would leave the question for the future when they weren’t at work, and when they weren’t called to meet with an agent. 

A few more words were exchanged as Tim finished the call, wishing the best for the rest of Jack’s day before he placed the receiver back on the base of the phone. Jon shifted against the frame, the doorknob uncomfortably digging into his side. 

“What was that all about?” Jon signed, concern pressing his brow as Tim stood up, gathering a pile of papers that seemed to be knocked from their usual stack, more than likely from putting his feet up on the desk carelessly. 

“Just… it was nothing. Well, it was certainly something, but it’s not something you’d be able to control. It’s-“ Tim paused, seeing the continuous concern in Jon’s expression. He let out an exasperated sigh, pushing the chair into his desk and leaning against it. 

“Jack was… His work, just-”

Jon could see him tightening at the present thought, and waved his hands in front of him to dismiss it. 

“I understand,” he signed with a quick gesture. “I understand, it’s… complicated.”

Tim nodded a silent agreement that it was complicated, but also used the nod as a notion to move on.

-

Sasha James entered the building an hour before she would be formally introduced to the team of workers Mr. Bouchard and Mr. Lukas had assigned to her. Over the course of the Asset’s containment in the MAGNUS Institute, she would monitor their progress through their chosen observations and tests on the Asset (she actually already had a set plan of what experiments they were expected to do over the course of the year, some including more risk than most found comfortable).

After several hours dedicated to learning about the two men—prior to her entrance—she concluded that both of them, when being completely honest with herself, were nothing like she had imagined. 

The records didn’t exactly include a picture of the Archivist and CTO, but in the end that wasn’t exactly a subject of interest for Sasha. The file outlined their involvement with the MAGNUS Institute, past job records, and university experience: the basic structure of a background check. Of course, they both had their jobs now (which, undeniably, she found surprising), and they had their consistency in work progress, but a part of Sasha almost expected more. Although, if someone were to ask her what exactly it was that she expected, her answer would be stalled. 

Once the two men had finally entered the Main Archive and found their way to Sasha—a few minutes late, as Mr. Bouchard had predicted—the shorter one asked for her forgiveness. 

Or, rather, that’s what the taller male translated. 

She already knew which boy was which, as there was only one sign language user in the Institute—that, of course, was Mr. Jonathan Sims, the Chief Archivist of the MAGNUS Institute. 

She had set aside as much time as she could to invest in the appropriate classes, spending the majority of her downtime overseas and her first morning abroad to overview the basics in sign. 

(It was the least she could do, despite being told it wasn’t necessary. Of course, he wasn’t deaf, so he could understand her, but it was a matter of understanding him. )

“Sasha James,” she announced before the air could grow any heavier, a confident hand raised in greeting towards the two men. The gesture cut through the quiet atmosphere, dismissing the fact that they had arrived late. “I’m an agent under the BIA, the-”

Before she could finish her greeting, the taller, stockier figure—who she took to be Timothy Stoker—raised his hand to shake hers, a polite interruption that was built to intrigue rather than repel. Sasha wasn't sure which one she felt. 

“The Brazilian Intelligence Agency, we’ve been informed,” he continued, before introducing himself. “Timothy Stoker—but please, call me Tim. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Agent James.”

She nodded her head, letting go of his hand after the greeting. Noticing his wrist wear, she let herself gaze at a beaded bracelet that fell down his wrist, as if it were too big for his wrist. It looked sentimental, and it only took Tim to notice that she was staring for him and clear his throat to affirm that assumption. She relaxed her shoulders, unaware of how tense they had become. “It’s a delight to hear that I’m not the only one doing background checks,” she humored the silence, easing the air of their first impressions. “And I can go by Sasha—or just Agent, I suppose—whatever you’d like. With this particular case, I find no reasonable need to continue such full formalities. We’ll be spending enough time together as it is… why not get comfortable?”

Tim brightened, his expression lifting at the mention of forgotten formalities. His gaze briefly veered towards Elias’s office overlooking the archive. “Of course, formalities won’t be an issue at all.”

Sasha nodded before turning her attention to Jon, who had been looking around the archive as if it were his first time. She was unsure if this was the result of curious interest or paranoia. 

Given his record, it could be either. 

“So that makes you Jonathan Sims, if I’m not mistaken?” She extended her hand for another greeting, his attention finally turning to her. “I’ve read a lot about you—good things, you should know. Your record is impressive, how much you’ve… improved the MAGNUS Institute in the time you’ve been employed.”

Jon’s response was nothing short of awkward. Tim laughed to Jon’s dismay, commenting on how much of a workaholic he tended to be at times, leading to his impressive transcripts as if it were nothing more than a simple task (which, if not for the lack of sleep showing under his eyes, could have been considered true). 

All commentary aside, by the time Jon had raised his hand to meet Sasha’s in greeting, the amount of hesitation and withheld nature was obvious enough to supply both parties with a sense of embarrassment. 

“Well, it’s good that we’re finally able to meet each other, especially on such short notice- er, to get started, how long have you guys been given to research the Asset? Just so I’m aware of where we should start.”

The two men exchanged an empty glance, expecting the other to answer the question (despite only one of them being able to give a vocal answer). Sasha shifted her weight at the silence, lost in their confusion. 

“Well, actually,” Tim started, busying himself by making meaningless gestures in the hair with his hand. “We were only told about it yesterday.”

Sasha’s stomach dropped. It wasn’t from the normal sense of dread, nor was it sickness. It was disappointment.

She wasn’t at all disappointed at the two standing in front of her, but rather Mr. Bouchard and Mr. Lukas. This exchange has been discussed for months, with hundreds of pages dedicated to prior research on the Asset, and dozens more outlining the details of the trade. How in the hell do you avoid telling the two employees who would be working with the Asset for that long, and only decide to bring it up the day before it arrived?

One hell of a surprise package. 

“So you don’t know anything? ” Sasha asked, feeling her patience start to wear. She could see the slight offense the two took from her accusation, but whatever tension that had started to build was drawn aside as Jon reached into his bag to pull out a few files. Each folder was stacked with papers, taking up enough space inside the messenger bag to leave it nearly empty once they were all taken out. The only thing she recognized that was left was a few tapes and a recorder, of which had seen better days. 

“Elias gave us the files to look at, but there wasn’t much of an opportunity to really dive into it since he didn’t want them leaving the Institute,” Tim supplied, watching as Jon set the folders down on a nearby table, seeming to organize them as he shuffled them around each other. “But Elias is a bag of shit; he doesn’t give us nearly enough time to complete what he thinks are simple tasks, and—as coming from the Chief of Technology here at the MAGNUS Institute—probably has thousands of hidden files off record anyways.”

Sasha looked at the now set files on the table as a short laugh escaped her lips. “So you copied them?”

Tim waved his hands in front of his chest, shaking his head to signify that no, it wasn’t him, but rather Jon. After setting his bag down and opening the first of many folders, Jon looked to Sasha, then to Tim. 

“Jon did more research than I did, of course. Took them home, read them, studied them. I’m surprised he brought them all back.” Tim picked up a set of files, opening it to reveal the record of transfers the Asset went through overseas.

Sasha, having kept her focus on Jon, recognized a hint of guilt across his face at the mention of him bringing the files back in full. Whatever files he didn’t return—whatever files he copied—Tim didn’t know about it. 

Seems accurate. 

“Did you seriously read all of it?” She asked, her interest peaking and fascination lining her expression. 

Jon simply nodded, a quick answer before he reached across the table near her and opened the first folder. Moving the first few pages aside, Jon pushed forward a drawing resembling da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man forward, and she recognized the figure immediately. 

It was the Asset. 

Jon tapped the drawing a few times, before motioning towards his eyes, then back to Sasha: “Have you seen the Asset?”

Tim didn’t have to translate, as the intention of Jon’s question was obvious enough. 

“Of course I have,” Sasha replied. “I’m the one who organized its transport from the carrier to the Institute.” She looked between Tim and Jon, trying to piece together if, at any point in the past 12 hours, either of them had. 

“I wasn’t the one to make observations or monitor its physical health, luckily. However, I was the one responsible for all my workers and colleagues on board. Hopefully both of you are informed, and are aware of the risks this case ensues, and what danger you are putting yourself in by being involved.”

Tim’s reply was encapsulated by a sarcastic laugh, sending Sasha back a few mental steps. “A freakish man-fish with ungodly powers entering a country that couldn’t even begin to grasp its abilities?” Tim set the file he had been holding back onto the table in its ordered place. “If you’re asking me, it sounds like fun.”


	13. The Disconcerting Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So looks like I'm forcing myself to post at Least once a week (which, honestly, I'm not sure how long that will last; not because of writers block, but because of school/work & other side projects that have deadlines)
> 
> so, unfortunately, this guy is forced at the bottom of my To Do List (i'm cry)

**AUDIO FILE EXCERPT #17**

        [Continued translation from Address “56BV”, #9530418 — 10:26]

[______]: As stated by secondary witnesses—names redacted in efforts to preserve what little identity they have been left with—the subject known as the Asset has “left an unforgiving footprint” on their villages and cities. 

Such reports of… supernatural occurrences have been recorded for years on paper, organized in boxes with restricted access until the case of the Asset was opened to the British Government. After the end of World War II, tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union, along with the rather unfortunate allies of both, exacerbated.

_ [A shuffling of pages is heard, followed by the creaking of a door opening and closing. Its hinges were noticeably older than the narrator. There was and is no present sign of another person in the room, as the speaker simply continues on without interruption.] _

[______]: Despite complications, Brazil has decided to exchange the Asset’s containment for information on its intentions and origin once the Institute of interest has gained the answers. Agreements in order, both parties are just as ecstatic about the case as they are to keep the Asset’s existence unknown as far as the United States is concerned; the Russians are just as well, along with the German forces that were based within the Brazilian city Alter do Chão, Pará. 

Alter do Chão is found next to Tapajós, one of the Amazon River’s main tributaries. This branch was noted by the German’s as one of the many beginning locations of the “götterdämmerung” and its “avatar”.

_ [The voice spends a few moments reading the word “götterdämmerung” over again, emphasizing various syllables, despite getting it right the first time.] _

[______]: Götterdämmerung, it’s an interesting word. It’s German in origin, hardly having a justified English translation—Helen?

_ [A chair slides against the floor in response, and a sound similar to white noise—perhaps the shifting of a jacket, or clothes—fills the output of the tape. The voice that followed was of an older woman with an academic tone lined with aged patience.] _

Helen: You have the papers right there. I expect you are able to translate it yourself. 

[______]: If I could answer everything myself, what would be the point of having such a… nice apprentice, hm?

_ [Silence fills the tape—a pause long enough that even the listener would feel the tension.] _

Helen: We both know that I should be the one in your position, Michael. One of these days, I'm going to replace you, and you’ll be gone. 

Michael: You’ll be promoted, and I won’t be gone forever. You'd miss me- oh, I just know it!

_ [Another moment of silence, before the chair scrubbed against the floor once again.] _

Michael: Anyways… “götter” is the plural of “god”, whereas the second end of the word “dämmerung” translates to “twilight”, making the literal translation of “götterdämmerung”, well, “twilight of the gods”.  

_ [A fit of papers shuffling overlaps the speaker’s next words, before they continue.] _

Michael: How was that, Helen?

Helen: As good as the barrier of foreign language will let you.

_ [A stifled laugh, low and pressed, temporarily defeats the silence. However, it is unclear which person the laugh came from.] _

_ [The audio distorts for a few moments, as if the tape were being moved from its place.] _

-

_ Click. _

“Jon.”

Georgie sat a cup of tea on the table beside Jon as the tape skipped to a stop. He was lounged on the couch—drawn to the shoulder, leaning against the arm—more relaxed than she would have expected him to be, given what he was listening to. Jon didn’t want to admit it, but his position had begun to mold itself into the couch, as that particular side of the arm tended to bend out more than the one opposite it. 

Georgie teased him about it, especially since it was her couch. 

Her flat, despite being the same layout as Jon’s but mirrored, was significantly nicer. It wasn’t so much that Jon was messy, rather Georgie took more time in making the area cleaner. Supposedly, Jon’s flat had been subject to arson, an event originally thought to be an accident caused by the still-present faulty flat wiring. 

The walls were scorched at the tops, leaking black stains pouring into the ceiling. Water had its fair hand in damage as well, wearing the kitchen and main room, the worst areas gathering the windows. Aged seals and worn wallpaper cracked the walls and outlines of corners, half-heartedly covered by more sealant and paper, only to wear off within the next few years. The previous owners of the flat didn’t care much more than any of the others, and Jon wasn’t about to spend more money than he would want to on a flat that was doomed from the start. 

Being a floor above the cinema, disturbed nightly by the bright lights and speakers below, years-old water and fire damage was just another tick on his list of worries.

Jon finally reached out for the tea, holding the saucer with the palm of his bandaged hand. He gave a thankful nod to Georgie, who had sat on the other side of the couch, waiting for the response. 

“So,” she started, sipping from her own cup of tea. “What was that about?”

Jon followed her nod to the recorder next to him, and he took a breath, shifting in the seat. “The Asset,” he signed. “Its origin—sort of. It talks about where it came from, what it did.” Jon sorted through a pile of transcripts attached to the tape. They were all marked under the same author and the same file tag as the audio he had been listening to. 

“Anything useful for the case?” 

Jon gave it a moment of thought. The tape certainly gave him a deeper understanding of the area the Asset was found, however it failed to give him any input on the actual danger of the creature. The researcher—Michael—he said that it was noted as a god, or at least was an avatar of a god. Looking through the rest of the transcripts and articles, Jon was able to read a variety of encounters the citizens had with the Asset, including one that was borderline sacrificial.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes?” Georgie finished, readjusting her position on the couch. 

Jon looked back over to Georgie, raising his expression to one of minor confusion, before realizing. 

“No- well, yes,” he started, taking a drink of his tea before setting it back down on the table. “The Asset, it’s always had a history of being… violent. At least, that’s what we think it’s been. In reality, it- the Asset, well- it’s not violent, not really.”

“And you know this…?” Georgie questioned, lifting the cup back up to her lips. 

Jon hadn’t told Georgie about his experience. Hell, the only person he had mentioned it to was Tim, who should have probably been the last to know. Jon was so caught up in the mania of the situation that he had forgotten himself, he had let the information slip. 

He wasn’t sure who had heard, what unlucky bystander had listened to his experience and spread it around. Jon couldn’t have that, he couldn’t put the Asset at risk like that—he couldn’t put himself at risk. 

If word got out of hand, if the public knew about the Asset’s abilities and its potentially threatening existence, it was _over._

It would all be over. 

Jon shook his head. “A few other statements I read, it seems unlike the Asset to be completely malicious. I figure the actions… could be justified, simply defending himself from harm.” 

Georgie nodded, a look of what Jon perceived as doubt on her face, but he tore his gaze from hers before he let it affect his composure.  

“The people, they believe it’s a god. A figure of history, brought down upon them to begin some twilight of the world—to start the end and finish the beginning. However, the way they praise the Asset, it almost seems-”

“Like they’re sacrifices.”

They shared a look of sympathy to one another, before Jon became plagued with a sense of dissatisfaction.

“Almost, but what they do- it’s more. Sacrifices are meant to be offerings, ways of worship to the higher power, but the Germans- they were asking. In almost every noted event they had surrounding the Asset, they would plead for ‘freedom’, for ‘peace’, as if they were looking for a way out of the war.”

“They could be looking for a way out of life,” Georgie added, to which Jon replied with a puzzled expression. “Look at it this way: the Germans want an escape, to be ‘free’, right? They’re praising this god of the sea, whatever they wanted to call it, and then proceed to ask for its help, its mercy.

“Suppose you meet this powerful, unpredictable creature that you know nothing about, that you’ve never seen before, and could kill you—if desired—as easily as it could a fish. Also suppose you’re stuck in this black-and-white, war-shot moment of life, and you’ve just met a fish Jesus.”

Georgie started to become increasingly fascinated with the subject, sitting up straighter on the sofa. She leaned a few inches towards Jon, a dramatic effect on her words as she spoke. 

“They want the Asset to take them in as subjects, Jon. The Asset had regenerative powers, right? Something about its bioluminescence-”

Jon nodded, interrupting Georgie by clarifying through signs. “The chemicals speed up cell growth and result in faster regeneration.”

“Right—so take the chaotic minds of the Germans, clouded by the toxic environment of war that surrounded them, and give them the actual creative imagination to believe that they could turn into a god.”

Jon failed to form a reply, unable to wrap his mind about the reality of what Georgie had said. Raising his hands, he started to sign, but still took a few seconds to finally start. “I don’t know, it just- it seems too… y’know… out there?”

Georgie’s expression flattened, sending a spike through Jon’s chest, cold and quick. “Jon, you’re studying a man fish that glows. I think this entire case is out there.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” He watched as Georgie stood up from the couch, making her way to the kitchen to get more tea. She had already finished hers, despite talking more than Jon had. He had hardly touched it, unsure if he even planned to finish it. The steam had begun to settle as the drink remained unbothered, and his thoughts made their usual rounds. 

They were unable to record statements from the Germans, considering they were anything but pleased to see that their operation was being compromised. Considerations of further interrogations were made, but the British and Brazilian government refused to further impress the tensions between Germany and their allies. The most they would ever get out of the German’s motives is the files they translated. Any other understanding would have to come from the source it surrounded.

That being said, they were now in possession of the source. 

One ever-present problem, however, is the communication barrier. 

Unlike the Germans—given their persistence in attempting to communicate with the Asset, and only managing to record lines of Morse code which, unfortunately, was just the Asset’s bioluminescence over the course of a few hours—Jon was able to connect to the creature in ways no one else has been able to (or, at least, so he thinks, as there hasn’t been any file on the matter).

He wasn’t one to speculate—he left that to Georgie—but this was different. He had experienced it first hand, and wasn't about to go denying the obvious. 

He had talked to the Asset, yet he wasn’t sure how. The Asset was not capable of speech—or, at least, understanding English—as it had never shown any history of speaking or verbal communication that made sense. 

That is, until now. 

Still, Jon wasn’t sure what he could call what they did. It wasn't talking, given no words were spoken. It wasn't signing, as the Asset simply mirrored his movements. 

But they still understood each other. 

Jon looked to Georgie, who had found her way back to the couch and had started up the telly, a show that Georgie had mentioned being rather new playing on the screen. 

What better way to theorize about supernatural experiences than to bring hypotheticals to play. 

“About… worshipping sea gods with strange and unpredictable power, what do you think about communication?”

Georgie looked from the set to Jon once he started signing, and looked puzzled at the question. “Communication, like talking?”

Jon figured it would be difficult to describe, but he’d try his best. “Well, not necessarily, rather feeling...”

Georgie’s expression remained just as confused as before, if not more. Jon then realized exactly what he had said, and how he had it. 

Sometimes, signing was a difficult force of communication. 

“Oh! Well, not- er, _‘feeling it’_ feeling it, what I mean- was sensing it.”

Georgie shook her head. “I’m… not sure I follow, Jon.”

“Let me just-” Jon sat up a bit straighter, and reached out for Georgie's arm, holding it in his bandaged hand whole signing with the other. “I’m touching you now, right?”

“You… are certainly touching me.”

_ This wasn’t going well at all.  _

Jon pressed on. “But I- well, I can’t read you. I can’t feel what you feel, I can’t sense what you’re feeling. It’s just-”

“Jon- Jon,” Georgie stopped him, grabbing his hand to stop him from signing, and took her arm back from his other. “You do a lot of strange things, you work at a strange place, but _what_ the fuck.”

Jon took his hand from Georgie’s, figuring there wasn't any way he was going to be able to explain what happened without telling the truth. 

Like hell he was going to tell her the full truth. 

“An agent at the archives, they had met the Asset—really met the Asset—and said that they- that they could feel it, mentally.”

“Mentally? You mean, like-?” 

Jon waved his hand to cut her off, before explaining. “They saw its unit, the tank it was kept in, and went up to the glass where the Asset was. They were able to place their hand on the glass, to feel the normal, cold touch—but once the Asset mirrored their movement, placing its hand across from theirs, everything… changed.

“This feeling of understanding, of being able to know what the other was thinking, came to them. It was as if, all of a sudden, they were able to communicate to this creature, to be able to talk to it faster than if they were to talk to a friend. It was thoughts bouncing back and forth, emotions each of them shared. It was supernatural, but at the same time, felt right, as if it should always be like that.”

Jon took a moment to sit back and gather his thoughts, making sure to avoid saying more than he should. “But, in the end, once the hands were pulled away, once they left that glass, it all went away. The feeling felt distant, stuck now in memory. It’s been days since it happened, and they said that- that their dreams included the Asset, as if they were still there, watching each other from opposite sides of the glass.”

The room dipped into silence, but it was more contemplative that awkward. After some time had passed though, Georgie asked another question. “Has this agent… met with the Asset again since then? Or just once?”

“Once.”

She took a breath, measuring her response. “Jon, this is a creature that no one in the entire world—even the Germans, the villagers—has a definite profile for. The Asset is… a curious figure, and I’m sure it possesses power that we couldn’t even begin to comprehend, especially in this time.”

Jon looked to add another comment, raising his hand and straightening his composure before Georgie continued on. “But, given what you’ve said—given what this… agent has gone through—I would say it's similar to… a bond, or an imprint in nature.”

The label sent Jon spiraling and he didn't even bother keeping his expression calm, as if the accusation were personal (when, in reality, it was). “A bond?”  

Georgie brushed off the fit with a gesture of her hand, signalling him to relax. “Consider it, once a baby is born, it imprints on its mother, forming a bond. Perhaps it doesn’t grant the same level of understanding, but that imprint can lead to a fairly strong bond throughout the creature’s entire life.

“Another example is humans—people. Think about twins: they are able to think similarly because they’re, well, twins. Soulmates, er- ‘soulmates’ could also do this, where they simply think similarly and, after years of knowing each other, are able to sense what the other is feeling. They’re able to know when the other person is sad, despite whatever mask the other wants to bear.”

Jon sat quiet for a few moments, taking the words in as if he were listening to another statement. Georgie waited until he looked up at her to continue, a sign that he was actually listening, rather than moving into his own thoughts. 

“I don’t want to say what your agent experienced was exaggerated, or doubtful, but I will say that it may not be as supernatural as you may think.”

Jon gave a doubtful laugh, short and half-hearted. “I guess it’s not too abnormal of nature.”

Almost as if he were interrupting the conversation, the Admiral hopped on top of the couch to in between the two. Jon jumped at the sudden appearance, a reaction the Admiral gets nearly every time. 

Georgie watched as the Maine Coon sprung down to her side of the couch, settling in her lap in what he found comfortable, while the distribution of his weight was bound to make Georgie’s foot fall asleep within minutes. 

Still, the company was appreciated. She swept her hand through his fur, admiring the soft texture. “Hell, the Admiral can tell when I’m upset and need company. He’s sweeter to me then, but once I start cheering up…”

The Admiral meowed, almost threatening to leave his position to retreat to the kitchen, or under the couch. 

Jon reached for his tea, taking a drink as he signed, “Are you upset now?”

Georgie shook her head, running her fingers under the cat’s chin and chest. “Not particularly. Do you want me to be?” A mischievous grin, and Jon pressed a laugh.

“If I did, I'd talk instead of sign.” 

“Oh, I’d _definitely_ be upset, then.”

The Admiral meowed, the result of Georgie stopping the scratching. 

“I think I’m getting better, don’t cough nearly as much,” Jon continued, glad he wasn’t talking, or else Georgie would be able to tell that he was lying through his teeth. 

She nodded in response, adding a small “good” before going back to scratching the Admiral’s fur. Finding a few knots, she fixed her fingers through them before giving him a few extra pats. 

Jon wanted to believe that he was getting better, but he knew he was far from that truth. 

Georgie wanted to believe his lie, but knew just from the way he carried himself, the long nights and short resting hours, that he was anything but healthy.


	14. Different Tastes

If there was any possible way for Jon to worsen his health more than he already was, this was it. 

It had been just short of two weeks since his first encounter with the Asset—was ‘encounter’ the right word?—yet Jon had only managed to visit him three other times. After the initial encounter, Jon was, to put it simply, a little hesitant to see the Asset again, especially after his conversation with Georgie. 

_A bond._

Jon had pulled more dictionaries than he could count, searching through every possible iteration of the word _bond._ He wanted answers, a logical explanation, as to why in the _hell_ he would have a potential bond with the Asset. It didn't make any sense. Furthermore, Jon had visited the town’s library and pulled nearly a dozen books on parental bonds, marital bonds, until he was eventually led to the psychology of ‘soulmates’. 

In the end, after all of this research that he was hoping would give him any more of an answer than he had before, he was back to nothing—nothing he wanted to trust.

So, he went to the Asset in Archive 22. 

It was the fifth time he had visited the Asset, but he was nowhere to be seen. The fogged, blue water lit from the inside the tank held no moving shadow, nor did any of the other viewing points Jon could find, such as the glass pane near the other end. After he still couldn't see movement, he smoothed his gaze over the pool of salt—too much, in his opinion, to be at all healthy for _any_ creature—adjacent from the tank, but still found no moving figures.

A chain ran through the top of the unit behind the localized dead sea and disappeared into the thick surface of the water. Jon stared at it for a moment to watch, to see if it would move. He was frozen, holding his breath as if to wait for a sound, a ripple in the water, to echo through the air. 

For a moment, the surface seemed to shift. 

Then, a pressurized _hiss_ and mechanical growl of the door behind him echoed through the Archive.

“Jon!” Peter started, his voice starting off on a cheery, open note before toning down. “My office… if you don’t mind following me? I do hope I’m not interrupting anything important.” Peter shifted in his place, adjusting his cane as he waited for Jon.

Jon _did_ follow Peter to his office—which was where he was now sitting—but he continued to go over the movement of the water in his head. Had he imagined it? The movement wasn't not obvious or sharp enough to be obvious, but he could _feel_ it move.

He began to wonder if it was his mind creating the movement, but part of him _knew_ it had to be real. Where else would the Asset be?

“Jon, if you could focus?” 

Peter’s voice was eased, much less abrupt and demanding than Elias’s, but that wasn’t particularly any less unsettling. It didn’t help that Peter was staring at him with an intensity just beyond the facade of ease that Jon couldn’t quite explain. It was an ocean—wide, deep, neverending; the waves crashing against a ship and threatening the helpless lives of those aboard. It was nauseating. 

Jon finally nodded in compliance, remaining silent until he realized that Peter was waiting—and would wait—for a vocal response. Inconvenient. _Okay then, why not give him one? I already have cancer—not like it can get any worse._

He cleared his throat—a straining action that burned and cut into his vocals like sharp rocks—before he began speaking. “Y- Yes. I’m focused, I apologize. What, er… what were you saying?”

Peter’s reaction was tempered. It had more edge than usual, which Jon found peculiar. Still, Peter managed to remain calm and collected in his tone. “I _asked_ if you had any unique findings; any experiences you would like to share with me about the Asset, hm?” Peter waited a few moments, soaking in the contemplative, struggling thoughts as they moved through the expressions on Jon’s face. “Has the Asset been moving around enough? Has it tried to escape the tank…? You’re an observationalist, so what are you _observing?_ ”

_I’m Chief Archivist—not just an ‘observer’, Peter Lukas._

Jon thought through each of the prompted questions—what the hell _should_ he tell Peter? Given Tim and Georgie’s varied reactions to his action with the Asset, he wasn’t sure what to expect—especially from someone as ominous as Peter. Would he be like Georgie and take a more intellectual approach to the Asset or take a more emotional path such as Tim’s?

Or, would it be a completely different reaction altogether?

“I’m not-” Jon began, clearing his throat, “I’m not sure—ah, what I mean is I’m not sure what can be classified as ‘unique’ quite… yet. I haven’t seen the Asset all that much, y’know?”

Peter nodded solemnly, disappointment already stringing out of his mouth in a list of words Jon could hardly understand, until Peter finally eased up, rolling his shoulders back.

“I have got to admit, I was hoping for a more… exact answer, Jonathan. I know your record, your ability. You should have an answer—or, at least one that’s more decisive than ‘yet’... _y’know?”_

Jon didn't particularly appreciate Peter’s mockery of him at the end of his statement. 

“I _just_ need more time, Mr. Lukas -”

“- Peter, Mr. Sims -”

“- _Peter_ , then,” Jon sighed out, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. He coughed into his arm before he continued. “A, uh… a couple months, a few at _least._ It would enable me to get a basic— _very_ basic—study of the Asset’s daily movements, habits, processes… As wasteful as that time may seem to you, it _will_ be worth it, I promise." Jon felt a buzz go through his chest this time, into his lungs. It was desperate. It itched at his throat so suddenly that he couldn’t help but reach for a box of tissues on Peter’s desk. He should have _known_ this was coming, especially at the rate he had been talking. It was like a constant open wound—just before it would heal over, he'd rip it open. 

However, Peter reached too, and he pulled the box back towards him only slightly—enough to capture Jon’s attention and stop him. The room went quiet.

The waves crashed against the ship again, the alarms and lights falling away to the sea. 

“I’ll give you another month, Jon.” Peter spoke as if he was being generous, which Jon knew well enough wasn’t the case. He could feel the same knives ripping at his throat coming from Peter's words. “You speak of time as if you have much left—when both of us know you don’t.”

Jon held back the pressure in his lungs as much as possible, but wasn’t able to hide the pain that came fighting back at him. 

“I would like a report exactly one month from now; your access to the Asset remains as it is. It’s plenty of time to conduct your little _experiments_.”

“Studies."

“Right,” Peter nudged the box towards Jon, which he took immediately. “Your _studies,_ then.”

Following this last comment, there was a brief silence—if brief was in any way synonymous to eternal—in which Jon attempted to cover up the remains of his cough with the tissue and Peter watched him. 

As if the bastard wasn't creepy enough. 

Finally, Jon willed himself to stand up and—despite it feeling like rocks grinding against sandpaper—spoke. “If you’ll excuse me then, Peter.”

Then Jon turned on his heel and walked out before a response was given. The cough only continued as he made his way down the hall, and he hoped that the feeling of Peter watching him—no, not watching him, it felt as if he were being cornered, isolating him—would go away. He didn't bother waiting for Peter to _actually_ dismiss him because, _no, fuck that,_ he just needed to _go._ Away from Peter Lukas, away from the office, away from that _damned corner_ , and away from the ship, tossing against the waves. 

-

Alice Tonner preferred to go by Daisy. It wasn’t a big deal if people called her Alice—she wasn’t so connected to ‘Daisy’ where she took offense if someone went off of her legal documents—but she still preferred to be Daisy. Granted, it _was_ just a nickname, not made from the best circumstances, but one she held onto nonetheless. Most of the staff—minus the few that preferred to be more "professional" than the rest—would refer to her as Daisy.

Calvin Benchly had preferred to call her Alice. 

Calvin Benchly was a friend—a close friend—of Alice’s; they had known each other since their late school years, where they actually _dated._ This relationship, as observed by those around them, was destined to compromise itself within the first few weeks. They were _best friends,_ not partners, nor lovers. Those weeks, however, turned into a month, which then turned into _multiple_ months, then turned into a year, then a second year, and a few months.

 _Then,_ after two years, did she gain the nickname _Daisy._  

Just before, when she had spoken to the officer that carefully, gently escorted her out of her and Calvin’s— _was ‘home’ the right term to describe it?—_ she had overheard the distant— _or was it right next to her? Everything seemed muted—_ muttering, and she knew it was about her. About her scar, or more so what would turn _into_ a scar. 

“Hello, er- Ms. Tonner?” 

Daisy moved her focus from the paper in front of her and looked up at the figure. A figure that seemed deprived of _something—_ whether that be emotion, sleep, or nutrition (none of which were surprising)—and… had shaved? _That’s a new one_ —as was the cup of coffee in hand, still steaming from the small hole in the top, accompanied by a small stir. 

“Mr. Sims,” Daisy replied, folding the old newspaper and tossing it back into the bottom drawer of her desk. She let out a short exhale. “What can I help you with today? Elias didn’t schedule any meeting with you. He’s always so knowledgeable when it comes to that sort of thing.”

“Hah,” Jon laughed breathlessly, shifting his feet before continuing. “I actually- I didn’t come to speak to Elias. I came to speak with… with you? About a tape.”

"You shouldn't be speaking at all, Jon." Daisy looked up to Jon, who seemed unsure. "Don't worry, I've taken some lessons—from a friend."

Finally, Jon nodded in compliance. "Okay. Fine." 

Daisy sat in silence, waiting for more details about the tape, but none came. She raised a brow, opening her hands in an expecting gesture. “Well? I need the tape’s case number, a reason for inquiry—you know how this works, Jon.” Daisy laid her hands down on the desk, tilting a pen back and forth impatiently before pointing it at Jon—more specifically the cup of coffee that had gone untouched. “And I thought you hated coffee?”

“I… like coffee?” Jon signed, shifting in his place. 

“You don’t seem the type; plus, I’ve seen you drink it before—you definitely hate it.”

Defeated, Jon nodded. He took a moment to calculate his movements before placing the coffee in front of Daisy. “I may not _like_ coffee, but I _do_ like getting complete, undamaged tapes.” Daisy watched as he placed a folder with written numbers on the front—only containing a few pages of text inside—on her desk. “Report #194, Statement #9060717CM, Cordelia Matthews. The tape was already sent in for repair—and it _should_ be fixed—but I want to know why it was damaged in the first place.” Jon was putting his faith in Tim that it was _actually_ getting fixed; it was his department, after all. 

Daisy picked up the coffee cup and moved it to another, cleaner side of her desk. She looked down at the folder, opening it up to see a very _small_ transcription of the tape. It was formatted as a standard statement tape, a section of the Archives that wasn’t often touched. Most of them were useless, false accounts of supernatural occurrences; oftentimes the teller was found intoxicated or drugged, leading to the declassification of enough statements that they were _all_ eventually considered false. 

“This... Look, this is not my job, Jon.” Daisy held the folder out towards him, but he didn’t take it. “I’m Elias’s _assistant._ I don’t monitor the tapes—you should really be asking Mr. Stoker for that information.”

“But Elias is the Chief—shouldn’t he watch over _all_ of the departments? Can’t you find out where the tape has been?”

“You _really_ don’t know how being an assistant works, do you?”

“Daisy, I-” Jon tightened his hands together, looking towards Elias’s office. He wasn’t there. “I know Elias has destroyed files before, Tim _knows_ he’s hidden some. You can’t tell me you haven’t seen him do it, either.”

Daisy’s expression was stone, and she knew Jon couldn’t read it, but it was understanding. She _did_ know what Elias was capable of because he had helped her by using the same power, but there were times where he would erase things he shouldn’t. It blocked specific points of the truth, whatever and however much he desired. It allowed him to change the truth and shift perceptions until it was _exactly_ what he wanted. He was manipulative to the workers and to the public. But he mostly did it to help, as Alice had grown to know. 

She looked back over the small amount of text, piecing together a small bit of context before closing the folder again. “If I would need to tell you anything, it would be that Elias wouldn’t care about this tape—not that I could predict, at least. It’s older than the both of us, probably even Peter Lukas. None of it would concern Elias, and you can trust me on that—mostly. That’s my opinion, though.” 

Jon looked disappointed, and he was. Daisy was, too; the coffee had sugar. It wasn’t a lot, but enough to leave a bad aftertaste. Cheap sugar packets _really_ didn’t do the beverage justice. She still took a drink, purely to see Jon ease a bit at the gesture. 

“With that, is there anything else you would like me to help you with?”

Jon gripped the strap of his bag, looking away from Daisy and towards the office once more. “No, I- I think that’s good. Thank you, Ms. Tonner.”

“Daisy,” she replied, handing him the folder once more. “Just Daisy is fine, Jon.”

She smiled, a short moment before he turned to leave with the folder, disappearing down the stairs as he slipped it back into his bag. She took another sip of the god-awful coffee, taking the stir out and throwing it away. She might have a distaste for sugar in coffee, but she knew she would feel a tinge of guilt if she threw it away. Plus, the disgust was bound to keep her awake. 

So she kept it, returning to her work with the coffee in hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, I'm sorry :( but I promise there will be regular update, and this time I'm not lying!
> 
> Considering we have this... current situation... I'll have more time on my hands, plus I've set a finish date. Expect chapters every other days, every few days, etc. They might be more spread out the first week or two I'm back, but as Stuff Goes Down I'll make updates more frequent. 
> 
> And if I don't, you have permission to end me :)
> 
> Hope everyone is staying safe and is doing okay in this time of hardship. Take the necessary precautions, wash your hands, etc (you've heard all of this multiple times). Just stay safe and sane. 
> 
> \- Sarkomi


	15. A Siren's Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> sorry if it gets awkward at certain points I... tried  
> also, it skips forward a bit in some parts, so just hold on tight.

A month isn’t long enough. 

Jon wanted so desperately to argue with Peter, to get the time he _actually_ needed, but he knew that Peter wasn’t exactly one willing to adjust beyond his comfort zone. 

He spent the next night flooding his mind with ways to go about the case with what time he had. What should he prioritize? Figuring out the components within the Asset that increase regenerative properties, supposedly healing him faster than any other species? His purpose, place, in this world? If there are others like him? If _they_ have a purpose?

If they mean harm?

If they mean to _kill,_ like the Asset has?

_Goddammit._

All those thoughts and questions—it was too much, and Jon knew he couldn't focus on all of them with the time he had.  It was impossible. If he had more help, _maybe—_ but with the case only being assigned to him, Tim, and Sasha... there wasn't much room to breathe. 

The streetlight poured in through his flat window and Jon lifted the needle from the record, pausing the music he had put in the background. He had hoped to drown out the more irrational questions in his mind with music Georgie had given him, but—to Jon’s _much_ expected disappointment—Dean Martin's "Ain't That A Kick In The Head" was never quite able to override the question of whether or not the Asset had devised a plan of escape from Archive 22. 

Given the Asset’s track record already, that question was less irrational than Jon would have thought it to be—but they still don’t know the full cognitive capabilities of the Asset. 

_Jon._

Jon relayed the fingerspelling of his name in his mind over and over again—how the Asset mimicked it, how he seemed to _understand_. That's common, though, right? Anything could learn to sign his name. Just like training a pet, they can learn—but what proves that they can actually understand?

What proves  _anyone_ understands?

_Well, that’s what the next month is for._

“But why do _I_ need to be there? You can’t just... send me the information and so I can format the reports?” Tim pressed himself into the driver’s seat, refusing to exit the car until Jon agreed to his plans of, well, _avoiding_ plans.

Jon turned in his seat. “We need to actually work together, Tim. I can’t spend the next month observing the Asset on my own. I need a second set of eyes.”

Tim pushed Jon’s glasses to the top of his nose. “You already _do.”_

“Bad joke—you know that’s not what I meant. _Real_ eyes.”

“Then _grow the m .”_

“Tim, I-”

“Maybe ask Elias for some, bastard has them everywhere.” Tim bounced his head to the east wall of the garage. Sure enough, there was a security camera. 

“I’m being serious. I just need a second opinion, someone to _help_ me.”

“Then why not get Sasha?”

“She has other work, Tim!”

Tim threw his hands up, shrugging. The beads on his bracelet shook, becoming the only sound in the car for a split second. “Looks like you’re out of luck, then!” He exited the car, locking it once he closed the door. Jon pulled on the handle,  then pushed up the lock, then pulled the handle again. He got out just as Tim started to pass his side, waving to get his attention. 

“We won’t be in there long, I just need someone else to be there. Less as a safety concern, more as another witness.”

Tim opened the door to the institute. “‘Witness’ as if I’m about to experience a murder?” 

“Keep it up and there _will be.”_

Tim snorted, following Jon into the hallway. Jon looked up at the top corners of the area: one of the few places in the institute where Elias didn’t have eyes.  There may be cameras in the garage and security entrances, but there were plenty of blind spots. There was always a blind spot. It wasn’t until they went through the main security, checked into the building for work, and stood by the stairwell that Jon found a camera and the silence between him and Tim finally broke. 

“Okay, dammit,” Tim started, his tone having shifted. “I’ll see your… prize goldfish—but _you_ are buying me a drink. Actually, make that three drinks—Liza and Jack, too. Can’t let them miss out on the _fun.”_

Jon straightened himself, but he couldn't help but be curious as to why Tim was ever hesitant in the first place. Of course, safety was _always_ a concern—especially when both of them had read the files and looked over the events in Brazil and on the transport over—but Jon had reassured Tim as much as he could when he opened up about his experience with the Asset. He looked more like a fantastical creature to be admired—carved from marble and reimagined in Michelangelo's eyes—than a dangerous creature, studied and tested for its scientific benefits. 

He was such a magnificent creature, what did humans do to find him?

"What does it look like, anyway? Compared to the drawings in the file."

Jon looked to Tim, a little taken aback by the question, having been enveloped in his thoughts. Christ, Tim had never seen the Asset before—Jon didn't know where to start. 

"You'll see, and you could answer that question for yourself," Jon replied, opening the door to the stairwell.

Tim followed Jon, running his fingers across the bracelet on his wrist, as they stepped down lower and lower into the MAGNUS Institute, watching as the lights seemed to grow dimmer and the walls seemed to press into the stairs tighter. He pushed his hands into his pockets in the end—to keep them from fidgeting. Jon noticed, casting a glance back to the other as they continued down another level.

“You really should have nothing to worry about, Tim. The Asset is contained. The tank is bolted, the glass is thick… nothing could get out of there.” Jon stopped after the next flight of stairs and opened the door once again. 

Tim responded with a short huff, humored by the assurances Jon was giving. “What makes this unit so different from the others?” 

The hallway before them was empty, as per usual, with dull concrete walls leading them down the archives. A22 was just around the bend of concrete, in a farther area. It was spaced apart from the other, more frequently used, archives rather well. Jon remembered that had been down here before they were introduced to the case—before he knew A22 even _existed_ —but never paid much mind to it. There was no need to. The MAGNUS Institute was always transparent with its staff, or at least gave the impression that they were. 

_Chhhk. Beep._

The door to A22 roared to life, and Jon put his ID card away. He let Tim enter first, who immediately took a moment to observe his surroundings. His eyes followed the large pipes that extended from the pool of dark, salt-heavy water; the monitors that sat across from the secure, blue-lit unit presented video feed from black and white cameras from the inside of the unit; the lockers and storage cabinets that lined the walls nearest to the entrance, where he was standing, were painted a dull, army green. He tried a few of the lockers, looking inside and seeing hardly anything interesting, until one wouldn’t open—Tim saw that a combination lock was placed just above the handle. He would try it another time. 

The air was damp—choking, almost—and Tim could already feel it clinging to his skin. The floor below them was wet, as if it had just been mopped. If that was case, and it _had_ just been mopped, whoever decided that the job was done at this stage should reevaluate their janitorial skills. Luckily, Tim was only slightly worried about slipping. 

Jon closed the door once he stepped inside and waited for it to seal. After the noise of old mechanisms silenced and the door locked in place, he went towards the until and peered inside. The glass, being as thick as it was, distorted his vision slightly but didn’t prevent him from seeing through the bright water. He tapped the glass, a light touch, but saw no movement. 

“I don’t understand,” Jon signed, looking back at Tim. “The Asset has to be inside, somewhere.”

Tim looked over at the empty monitors, waiting for a sign. All he saw was the shadow of Jon’s person at the edge of the last camera. “I don’t see it."

Jon's face flushed with confusion, before Tim followed up. "You said before that you didn’t see it on the cameras, is there a blind spot inside?”

Jon moved around the side of the unit, looking in through some of the smaller windows. The light reflected inside the unit, but it wasn’t like the bioluminescent shimmer of the Asset that Jon had seen before. 

“Jon?” Tim looked towards the elevated pool. Each step leading up to the edge of the water was twice the size of a normal one—something Tim noticed as _he_ stepped up, looking over the sharp, eye-stinging water. There was no movement, save for the small waves that smoothed over the water from the large, metal filter against the wall. Tim, as he watched the small waves, saw a dark, matte chain directly across from him. It was leading from the opposite side of the pool, from the top of the filter, and into the water. 

Jon immediately turned on his heel and went up the few steps to lean over the water. He leaned on his hands, as his palms were met with a cool, wet surface—water must have been pushed against the side of the pool and splashed out. Movement. He listened to the quiet movement of water entering the pool, watching as it separated the patches of salt on the surface. Tim stepped down from the steps, quietly. Jon’s gaze snapped up from the water to the chain, looking for any shifting there, desperately trying to think of where it was the last time he saw it, and if it had moved.

If anywhere, the Asset _had_ to be here. There was no reason for him to be moved, and—more reasonably—what else would the pool be for? _Who_ else?

Just as Jon turned around towards where he assumed Tim to be, an overwhelming, piercing _clang!_ echoed throughout the archive. Panicked, Jon pushed himself backwards. He grabbed at the edge of the pool, but the water beneath his palms slipped, throwing him down. A hand grabbed at his arm, beads sounded off in attendance, and Jon shouted, “Tim!”

Regaining his composure and pushing himself up against the edge, Jon looked over the surface of the water. “What the _hell_ was that?!” He signed aggressively to Tim, who had let go of his arm and started… laughing? Soon after, the sound of scraping metal accompanied him, and Jon looked down to see that Tim had been holding a pipe. 

_Oh, goddammit._

“You bastard, why- no, _where_ did you even get that?” Jon stepped down from the elevated pool and took the pipe from Tim, who was kneeling over from the particularly _hilarious_ event that just panned out before him.

“Doesn’t matter! You should have _seen_ yourself. Hell, I should have let you fall in!”

“Why the _hell_ would you do that?”

“Oh, calm down. Nothing’s actually _in_ there, Jon.”

Jon pushed down his anger, and he set the pipe against a cabinet—leaning it on the handle so it wouldn’t fall. “Well, then, did you actually _see_ the Asset? Because if I couldn't find him in the unit there’s only one other place he should be.”

Tim composed himself, standing straight again and shaking his head. “If the Asset was anywhere—specifically the _Dead Sea—_ don’t you think we would have seen it by now?”

Then—almost as if on cue—a heavy, metal sound answered the question. This time, it wasn’t the shrill, chilling ring of the pipe. It was low and hard. Jon didn’t need to look at the pool to know it was the chains moving. Tim moved passed Jon and looked over the edge of the water, Jon following soon after and pushing himself up the stairs, careful to grab onto the edge this time with the tighter grip. 

“Guess it heard me,” Tim said with a short laugh, a glare from Jon following soon after. 

Jon followed the chain with his eyes, seeing as it moved throughout the pool—slow, but… lifting? More of the chain rose above water as the Asset moved further and further from the anchor point, and Tim started to catch on to where the movement was leading to. 

“Jon, I really don’t think we should be this close,” Tim advised, leveling his tone. He turned halfway from the pool, putting a foot one step lower. 

“It’s okay,” Jon reassured, extending his hand out in front of Tim. He watched the chain lengthen, growing closer and pulling out of the water until it met its limit, and the movement subsided. “He won’t be able to reach me.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t _try,”_ Tim warned, his patience thinning. Blood rushed up to Jon’s ears. He could hear every beat of his heart, every breath he took. He looked into the water, trying to see through the patches of salt and into the dark green pool.

For a moment, Jon saw himself. That is, until the picture shifted and a figure began to rise out of the water.

At first, Jon could only see the Asset’s eyes. Those deep, dilated eyes that could focus on someone and pull them in like a siren’s call. Then, the large, billowing fins around his neck and on top of his head—they were reserved, but not because of the lack of threatening figures. A heavy, rounded cuff was secured around his neck that almost seemed to weigh the front of him down. Jon wanted to release him from the chain.

The next feature Jon saw emerge he had already seen part of. From the top of his head a single dorsal fin trailed down to his lower back. It peaked around his shoulder blades, sticking out as if a saw. As the Asset rose, his stature remained lowered, but he was no doubt taller than Jon and, potentially, Tim. The tension in Jon’s mind faded away, and the fear he had of the Asset smoothed—but he couldn’t say the same for Tim.

As the pressure ceased, Jon found himself surrounded by sounds he had not heard before. He heard a pitched clicking sound, a low, curious hum, and a voice. The clicking and low hum, he knew, came from the Asset—but the voice...

The Asset was not to be feared, but to be understood. _That’s_ what he wants Tim to find out. That’s why he needs someone else, someone he trusts, to experience what the Asset truly is— _who_ he truly is.

“Jon, are you-”

Tim wasn’t able to finish his question before the Asset finally acknowledged his presence with a hesitant, low clicking. His eyes met with Tim’s, but they were different; his pupils were constricted. Jon wasn’t sure if this was _bad,_ but he definitely knew it wasn't ideal—given Tim’s reluctance to see the Asset in the first place, Jon knew he did not possess the patient to deal with a potentially hostile creature. Jon had to diffuse the tension, if at all possible. 

“Yes, I’m okay,” Jon answered.

Tim switched his gaze. “Is _it_ okay? I feel like I should be grabbing that pipe right about now with the way it’s staring at me.” 

“He’s just… maybe take a step back?” Jon cleared his throat as quietly as he could before he took a step _forward._ He extended his hand towards the Asset, not sure what he was waiting for the Asset to do in response, but it felt… _right._ It was better than anything else. 

Tim watched carefully, looking back towards the pipe before spotting a camera in the far corner. He felt a half-hearted laugh come from his chest; of _course_ Elias was watching. But what did this mean for them? Were they supposed to be this close? Would Elias give them shit for trying to tame a monster? Is this  _really_ what Jon was having him do instead of office work? 

Office work _was_ pretty bad, but Tim wasn't sure if this was any better.

He took in a short breath, before turning back towards Jon. “Alright, let’s get to the point. What do we really need to be here for. What did you need me to ‘see’?”

“Him.” Jon watched the Asset reach for his covered hand, holding it in his own. He could feel the cold, dampness of his skin, the smoothness of it all just through his fingertips. The sharp, pointed fingers that could cut into just about anything with blood running through its veins. “You need to _understand._ He isn’t a monster, or- or a...”

“A killer? Jon, we _both_ know that’s not true. Even if he…” Tim took a breath before continuing. _Goddammit, I really_ am _going insane, now._ “Even if _it_ wasn’t a monster, it has killed people.”

“Then _he_ isn’t a monster.” Jon slowly pulled his hand away from the Asset, who watched him carefully, and stepped down to Tim’s level. He made sure every sign was within Tim's eyesight, wanting him to really _listen_ to what he was saying. “We don’t know what those people did to him, what he’s been through. _That’s_ what we need to figure out. Fuck the rest, something else had to have happened. He's too-"

“No, Jon, _no—_ _w e_ need to figure out-”

_Chhhk. Beep._

Jon and Tim’s attention shot towards the door of Archive 22, where it lifted and a figure appeared. Jon’s gaze, sudden, went towards the Asset, who was desperately trying to remove the metal cuff around his neck. He began to walk towards it, pushing himself up the steps to the pool. The Asset glared and pulled against the chain, the sharp, heavy metal sound ringing out along with a pitched, open cry.

Jon’s blood ran cold. He watched as the Asset’s teeth—sharp and white—presented themselves at Sasha James. It was uncharacteristic. It was too angry.

It wasn’t _right._

Then, Jon felt a cold, strong grip on his arm, and he was pulled backwards into the pool with the Asset.


End file.
